Short Fiction

The Dead Hand

One evening, about eight months ago, a friend of mine, Louis R., had invited together some college friends. We drank punch, and smoked, and talked about literature and art, telling amusing stories from time to time, as young men do when they come together. Suddenly the door opened wide, and one of my best friends from childhood entered like a hurricane. “Guess where I come from!” he shouted immediately. “Mabille’s, I bet,” one of us replied. “No,” said another, “you are too cheerful; you have just borrowed some money, or buried your uncle, or pawned your watch.” A third said: “You have been drunk, and as you smelt Louis’s punch, you came up to start all over again.”

“You are all wrong. I have come from P⁠⸺ in Normandy, where I have been spending a week, and from which I have brought along a distinguished criminal friend of mine, whom I will introduce, with your permission.” With these words he drew from his pocket a skinned hand. It was a horrible object; black and dried, very long and looking as if it were contracted. The muscles, of extraordinary power, were held in place on the back and palm by a strip of parchment-like skin, while the narrow, yellow nails still remained at the tips of the fingers. The whole hand reeked of crime a mile off.

“Just fancy,” said my friend, “the other day the belongings of an old sorcerer were sold who was very well known all over the countryside. He used to ride to the sabbath every Saturday night on a broomstick, he practised white and black magic, caused the cows to give blue milk and to wear their tails like that of Saint Anthony’s companion. At all events, the old ruffian had a great affection for this hand, which, he said, was that of a celebrated criminal, who was tortured in 1736 for having thrown his legitimate spouse head foremost into a well, and then hung the priest who married them to the spire of his church. After this twofold exploit he went wandering all over the world, and during a short but busy career he had robbed twelve travellers, smoked out some twenty monks in a monastery, and turned a nunnery into a harem.”

“But,” we cried, “what are you going to do with that horrible thing?”

“Why, I’ll use it as a bell handle to frighten away my criditors.”

“My dear fellow,” said Henry Smith, a tall, phlegmatic Englishman, “I believe this hand is simply a piece of Indian meat, preserved by some new method. I should advise you to make soup of it.”

“Don’t joke about it, gentlemen,” said a medical student, who was three sheets in the wind, with the utmost solemnity. “Pierre, if you take my advice, give this piece of human remains a Christian burial, for fear the owner of it may come and demand its return. Besides, this hand may perhaps have acquired bad habits. You know the proverb: ‘Once a thief always a thief.’ ”

“And ‘once a drunkard always a drunkard,’ ” retorted our host, pouring out a huge glass of punch for the student, who drank it off at a gulp, and fell under the table dead drunk. This sally was greeted with loud laughter. And Pierre, raising his glass, saluted the hand: “I drink to your master’s next visit.” Then the conversation turned to other topics, and we separated to go home.

As I was passing his door the next day, I went in. It was about two o’clock, and I found him reading and smoking. “Well, how are you?” I said. “Very well,” he answered.

“And what about your hand?”

“My hand? You must have seen it on my bell, where I put it last night when I came in. By the way, fancy, some idiot, no doubt trying to play a trick on me, came ringing at my door about midnight. I asked who was there, but, as nobody answered, I got back to bed and fell asleep again.”

Just at that moment there was a ring. It was the landlord, a vulgar and most impertinent person. He came in without greeting us, and said to my friend: “I must ask you, Sir, to remove at once that piece of carrion which you have attached to your bell-handle. Otherwise I shall be obliged to ask you to leave.”

“Sir,” replied Pierre very gravely, “you are insulting a hand which is worthy of better treatment. I would have you know that it belonged to a most respectable man.”

The landlord turned on his heel and walked out, just as he had come in. Pierre followed him, unhooked the hand, and attached it to the bell in his bedroom. “It is better there,” he said. “Like the Trappists’ memento mori, this hand will bring me serious thoughts every night as I fall asleep.” An hour later I left him and went home.

I slept badly the following night. I was nervous and restless. Several times I awoke with a start, and once I even fancied that a man had got into my room. I got up and looked in the wardrobes and under the bed. Finally, about six o’clock in the morning, when I was beginning to doze off, a violent knock at my door made me jump out of bed. It was my friend’s servant, half undressed, pale and trembling. “Oh, Sir,” he cried with a sob, “they’ve murdered the poor master.” I dressed in haste and rushed off to Pierre’s.

The house was full of people, arguing and moving about incessantly. Everyone was holding forth, relating the event and commenting upon it from every angle. With great difficulty I reached the bedroom. The door was guarded, but I gave my name, and I was admitted. Four police officers were standing in the centre of the room, notebook in hand, and they were making an examination. From time to time they spoke to each other in whispers and made entries in their notebooks. Two doctors were chatting near the bed on which Pierre was lying unconscious. He was not dead, but he looked awful. His staring eyes, his dilated pupils, seemed to be gazing fixedly with unspeakable terror at something strange and horrible. His fingers were contracted stiffly, and his body was covered up to his chin by a sheet, which I lifted. On his throat were the marks of five fingers which had pressed deeply into his flesh, and his shirt was stained by a few drops of blood. At that moment something struck me. I glanced at the bedroom bell; the skinned hand had disappeared. Doubtless the doctors had taken it away to spare the feelings of the people who came into the patient’s room, for that hand was really dreadful. I did not ask what had become of it.

I now take a cutting from one of the next day’s papers, giving the story of the crime, with all the details the police could procure. This is what it said:

“A horrible outrage was committed yesterday, the victim being a young gentleman, Monsieur Pierre B⁠⸺ a law student, and a member of one of the best families in Normandy. The young man returned home about ten o’clock in the evening, he dismissed his servant, a man named Bonvin, saying he was tired, and that he was going to bed. Towards midnight this man was aroused suddenly by his master’s bell, which was ringing furiously. He was frightened, lit a lamp and waited. The bell stopped for a minute, then rang again with such violence that the servant, frightened out of his wits, rushed out of his room and went to wake up the concierge. The latter ran and notified the police, and about fifteen minutes later they burst in the door.

“A terrible sight met their eyes. The furniture was all upset, and everything indicated that a fearful struggle had taken place between the victim and his aggressor. Young Pierre B⁠⸺ was lying motionless on his back in the middle of the room, his face livid, and his eyes dilated in the most dreadful fashion. His throat bore the deep marks of five fingers. The report of Doctor Bourdeau, who was immediately summoned, states that the aggressor must have been endowed with prodigious strength, and have had an extraordinarily thin and muscular hand, for the fingers had almost met in the flesh, and left five marks like bullet holes in the throat. No motive for the crime can be discovered, nor the identity of the criminal.”

The next day the same newspaper reported:

“M. Pierre B⁠⸺, the victim of the awful outrage which we related yesterday, recovered consciousness after two hours of devoted attention on the part of Doctor Bourdeau. His life is not in danger, but fears are entertained for his sanity. No trace of the guilty party has been found.”

It was true, my poor friend was mad. For seven months I went every day to see him at the hospital, but he did not recover the slightest glimmering of reason. In his delirium strange words escaped him, and like all insane people, he had an obsession, and always fancied a spectre was pursuing him. One day I was sent for in great haste, with a message that he was worse. He was dying when I reached him. He remained very calm for two hours, then all of a sudden, in spite of our efforts, he sat up in bed, and shouted, waving his arms as if in prey to mortal terror: “Take it! Take it! He is strangling me! Help! Help!” He ran twice around the room screaming, then he fell dead, with his face to the ground.

As he was an orphan, it was my duty to follow his remains to the little village of P⁠⸺ in Normandy, where his parents were buried. It was from this village that he came on the evening when he found us drinking punch at Louis R.’s, where he had shown us the skinned hand. His body was enclosed in a leaden coffin, and four days later I was walking sadly, with the old priest who had first taught him to read and write, in the little cemetery where his grave was being dug. The weather was glorious; the blue sky was flooded with light; the birds were singing in the hedgerows, where we had gone so often as children to eat blackberries. I fancied I could see him again creeping along the hedge and slipping in through the little hole which I knew so well, down there at the end of the paupers’ plot. Then we used to return to the house, with our cheeks and lips black with the juice of the fruit we had eaten. I looked at the bramble-bushes; they were covered with berries. I mechanically plucked one and put it into my mouth. The priest had opened his breviary and was murmuring his oremus. At the end of the avenue I could hear the spades of the gravediggers, as they dug his tomb.

Suddenly they called to us, the priest closed his prayerbook, and we went to see what they wanted. They had turned up a coffin. With a stroke of their picks they knocked off the lid, and we saw an unusually tall skeleton, lying on its back, whose empty eyes seemed to be looking at us defiantly. I had a queer sensation, for some unknown reason, and was almost afraid. “Hello!” cried one of the men, “look, the ruffian’s hand is cut off. Here it is.” And he picked up a big, dried-up hand, which was lying beside the body, and handed it to us. “I say,” said the other man laughing, “you would think that he was watching you, and that he was going to spring at your throat and make you give him back his hand.”

“Come along,” said the priest, “leave the dead in peace, and close that coffin again. We will dig a grave somewhere else for poor Monsieur Pierre.”

Everything was finished the next day and I set out for Paris again, after having left fifty francs with the old priest for masses for the repose of the soul of the man whose grave we had disturbed.

Doctor Heraclius Gloss

On the River

Last summer I rented a country cottage on the banks of the Seine, several miles from Paris, and I used to go out to sleep there every night. After a while, I formed the acquaintance of one of my neighbours, a man between thirty and forty years of age, who really was one of the queerest characters I have ever met. He was an old boating-man, crazy on the subject of boats, and was always either in, or on, or by the water. He must have been born in a boat, and probably he will die in one, some day, while taking a last outing.

One evening, as we were walking along the banks of the Seine, I asked him to tell me about some of his nautical experiences. Immediately his face lighted up, and he became eloquent, almost poetical, for his heart was full of an all-absorbing, irresistible, devouring passion⁠—a love for the river.

“Ah!” said he, “how many recollections I have of the river that flows at our feet! You street-dwellers have no idea what the river really is. But let a fisherman pronounce the word. To him it means mystery, the unknown, a land of mirage and phantasmagoria, where odd things that have no real existence are seen at night and strange noises are heard; where one trembles without knowing the reason why, as when passing through a cemetery⁠—and indeed the river is a sinister cemetery without graves.

“Land, for a fisherman, has boundaries, but the river, on moonless nights, appears to him unlimited. A sailor doesn’t feel the same way about the sea. The sea is often cruel, but it roars and foams, it gives us fair warning; the river is silent and treacherous. It flows stealthily, without a murmur, and the eternal gentle motion of the water is more awful to me than the big ocean waves.

“Dreamers believe that the deep hides immense lands of blue, where the drowned roll around among the big fish, in strange forests or in crystal caves. The river has only black depths, where the dead decay in the slime. But it’s beautiful when the sun shines on it, and the waters splash softly on the banks covered with whispering reeds.

“In speaking of the ocean the poet says:

“ ‘O flots, que vous savez de lugubres histoires!
Flots profonds, redoutés des mères à genoux,
Vous vous les racontez en montant les marées,
Et c’est ce qui vous fait ces voix désespérées
Que vous avez, le soir, quand vous venez vers nous.’3

Well, I believe that the stories the slender reeds tell one another in their wee, silvery voices are even more appalling than the ghastly tragedies related by the roaring waves.

“But as you have asked me to relate some of my recollections, I will tell you a strange adventure that happened to me here, about ten years ago.

“Then, as now, I lived in old mother Lafon’s house and one of my best friends, Louis Bernet, who since has given up boating, as well as his happy-go-lucky ways, to become a State Councillor, was camping out in the village of C⁠⸺, two miles away. We used to take dinner together every day, either at his place or at mine.

“One evening, as I was returning home alone, feeling rather tired, and with difficulty rowing the twelve-foot boat that I always took out at night, I stopped to rest a little while near that point over there, formed by reeds, about two hundred yards in front of the railway bridge. The weather was magnificent; the moon was shining very brightly, and the air was soft and still. The calmness of the surroundings tempted me, and I thought how pleasant it would be to fill my pipe here and smoke. No sooner said than done, and, laying hold of the anchor, I dropped it overboard. The boat, which was following the stream, slid to the end of the chain and came to a stop; I settled myself aft on a rug, as comfortably as I could. There was not a sound to be heard nor a movement to be seen, though sometimes I noticed the almost imperceptible rippling of the water on the banks, and watched the highest clumps of reeds, which at times assumed strange shapes that appeared to move.

“The river was perfectly calm, but I was affected by the extraordinary stillness that enveloped me. The frogs and toads, the nocturnal musicians of the swamps, were voiceless. Suddenly, at my right, a frog croaked. I started; it stopped, and all was silent. I resolved to light my pipe for distraction. But, strange to say, though I was an inveterate smoker I failed to enjoy it, and after a few puffs I grew sick and stopped smoking. Then I began to hum an air, but the sound of my voice depressed me.

“At last I lay down in the boat and watched the sky. For a while I remained quiet, but presently the slight pitching of the boat disturbed me. I felt as if it were swaying to and fro from one side of the river to the other, and that an invisible force or being was drawing it slowly to the bottom and then raising it to let it drop again. I was knocked about as if in a storm; I heard strange noises; I jumped up; the water was shining and all was still. Then I knew that my nerves were slightly shaken, and decided to leave the river. I pulled on the chain. The boat moved along, but presently I felt some resistance and pulled harder. The anchor refused to come up; it had caught in something at the bottom and remained stuck. I pulled and tugged but to no avail. With the oars I turned the boat around and forced her upstream, in order to alter the position of the anchor. This was all in vain, however, for the anchor did not yield; so in a rage, I began to shake at the chain, which wouldn’t budge.

“I sat down discouraged, to ponder over my mishap. It was impossible to break the chain or to separate it from the boat, as it was enormous and was riveted to a piece of wood as big as my arm; but as the weather continued fine, I did not doubt but that some fisherman would come along and rescue me. The accident calmed me so much that I managed to remain quiet and smoke my pipe. I had a bottle of rum with me so I drank two or three glasses of it and began to laugh at my situation. It was so warm that it would not have mattered much had I been obliged to spend all night out of doors.

“Suddenly something jarred slightly against the side of the boat. I started, and a cold sweat broke over me from head to foot. The noise was due to a piece of wood drifting along with the current, but it proved sufficient to disturb my mind, and once more I seized the chain and tugged in desperation. I felt the same strange nervousness creep over me. The anchor remained firm. I seated myself again, exhausted.

“Meantime the river was covering itself with a white mist that lay close to the water, so that when I stood up neither the stream, nor my feet, nor the boat, were visible to me; I could distinguish only the ends of the reeds and, a little farther away, the meadow, ashen in the moonlight, with large black patches formed by groups of Italian poplars reaching toward the sky. I was buried up to my waist in something that looked like a blanket of down of a peculiar whiteness; and all kinds of fantastic visions arose before me. I imagined that someone was trying to crawl into the boat, which I could no longer see, and that the river hidden under the thick fog was full of strange creatures that were swimming all around me. I felt a horrible depression steal over me, my temples throbbed, my heart beat wildly, and, losing all control over myself, I was ready to plunge overboard and swim to safety. But this idea suddenly filled me with horror. I imagined myself lost in the dense mist, floundering about aimlessly among the reeds and water-plants, unable to find the banks of the river or the boat; and I felt as if I should certainly be drawn by my feet to the bottom of the dark waters. As I really should have had to swim against the current for at least five hundred yards before reaching a spot where I could safely land, it was nine chances to ten that, being unable to see in the fog, I should drown, although I was a fine swimmer.

“I tried to overcome my dread. I determined not to be afraid, but there was something in me besides my will and that something was fainthearted. I asked myself what there was to fear; my courageous self railed at the other, the timid one; never before had I so fully realised the opposition that exists between the two beings we have in us; the one willing, the other resisting, and each one triumphing in turn. But this foolish and unaccountable fear was growing worse and worse, and was becoming positive terror. I remained motionless, with open eyes and straining ears, waiting. For what? I scarcely knew, but it must have been for something terrible. I believe that had a fish suddenly taken it into its head to jump out of the water, as frequently happens, I should have fallen in a dead faint. However, I managed to keep my senses after a violent effort to control myself. I took my bottle of rum and again raised it to my lips.

“Suddenly I began to shout at the top of my voice, turning successively toward the four points of the horizon. After my throat had become completely paralysed with shouting, I listened. A dog was barking in the distance.

“I drank some more rum and lay down in the bottom of the boat. I remained thus at least one hour, perhaps two, without sleeping, my eyes open, visited by nightmares. I did not dare to sit up, though I had an insane desire to do so; I put it off from second to second, saying: ‘Now then, I’ll get up,’ but I was afraid to move. At last I raised myself with infinite care, as if my life depended on the slightest sound I might make, and peered over the edge of the boat. I was greeted by the most marvellous, stupendous sight that it is possible to imagine. It was a vision of fairyland, one of those phenomena that travellers in distant countries tell us about, but that we are unable to believe.

“The mist, which two hours ago hung over the water, had lifted and settled on the banks of the stream. It formed on each side an unbroken hill, six or seven yards in height, that shone in the moonlight with the dazzling whiteness of snow. Nothing could be seen but the flashing river, moving between the two white mountains, and overhead a full moon that illuminated the milky-blue sky.

“All the hosts of the water had awakened; the frogs were croaking dismally, while from time to time a toad sent its short, monotonous, and gloomy note to the stars. Strange to say, I was no longer frightened; I was surrounded by a landscape so utterly unreal that the strangest freaks of nature would not have surprised me at all.

“How long this situation lasted I am unable to tell, for I finally dozed off to sleep. When I awoke, the moon was gone and the sky was covered with clouds. The water splashed dismally, the wind was blowing, it was cold and completely dark. I finished the rum and lay listening to the rustling of the reeds and the murmur of the river. I tried to see, but failed to distinguish the boat or even my hands, although I held them close to my eyes. The darkness, however, was slowly decreasing. Suddenly I thought I saw a shadow glide past me. I shouted to it and a voice responded: it was a fisherman. I called to him and told him of my plight. He brought his boat alongside mine and both began tugging at the chain. The anchor still would not yield. A cold, rainy day was setting in, one of those days that bring disaster and sadness. I perceived another boat, which we hailed. The owner added his strength to ours, and little by little the anchor gave way. It came up very slowly, laden with considerable weight. Finally a black heap appeared and we dragged it into my boat. It was the body of an old woman, with a big stone tied around her neck!”

At the Church Door

He used to live in a little house near the main road at the entrance to a village. After he married the daughter of a farmer in the district he set up as a wheelwright, and as they both worked hard, they amassed a small fortune. But one thing caused them great sorrow; they had no children. At last a child was born to them, and they called him Jean. They showered kisses upon him, wrapped him up in their affection, and became so fond of him that they could not let an hour pass without seeing him. When he was five years old a circus passed through the village and pitched its tent on the square in front of the Town Hall.

Jean had seen them and had slipped out of the house. After a long search his father discovered him in the midst of the trained goats and dogs. He was sitting on the knee of an old clown and was shouting with laughter.

Three days later, at dinner time, just as they were sitting down to table, the wheelwright and his wife discovered that their son was not in the house. They looked in the garden, and as they did not find him there, the father went to the roadside and shouted with all his might: “Jean!”

Night was falling, and a brownish mist filled the horizon, and everything retreated into the dark and gloomy distance. Three tall fir-trees close by seemed to be weeping. No voice replied, but the air was full of vague moaning. The father listened for a long time, believing that he could hear something, now on his right now on his left, and he plunged wildly into the night, calling incessantly: “Jean! Jean!”

He ran on until daybreak, filling the shadows with his cries, frightening the prowling animals, his heart torn by a terrible anguish, so that at times he thought he was going mad. His wife remained seated at the door, and wept until morning. Their son was never found.

From that time they aged rapidly in their sorrow, which nothing could console. Finally they sold their house and set out to look for their son themselves. They questioned the shepherds on the hills, the passing tradesmen, the peasants in the villages and the authorities in the towns. But it was a long time since their son had been lost. Nobody knew anything, and probably he himself had now forgotten his name and his birthplace. They wept and lost all hope. Very soon their money was exhausted, and they hired themselves out by the day to the farmers and innkeepers, discharging the most humble tasks, living on the leavings of others, sleeping out of doors and suffering from cold. But as they became feeble from overwork, nobody would employ them, and they were compelled to beg along the roads. They accosted travellers with sad faces and supplicating voices, imploring a piece of bread from the harvesters eating their dinner beneath a tree, at midday in the fields. They devoured it in silence, seated on the edge of the ditches. An innkeeper to whom they related their misfortunes, said to them one day:

“I also knew someone who lost a daughter; it was in Paris he found her.”

Immediately they set out for Paris.

When they reached the great city they were frightened by its size and by the crowds in the streets. But they realised that he must be amongst all these people, without knowing how to set about finding him. Then they were afraid they would not recognise him, for they had not seen him for fifteen years. They visited every street and square, stopping wherever they saw a crowd gathered, in the hope of a chance meeting, some prodigious stroke of luck, an act of pity on the part of Fate. They would often wander blindly ahead, clinging to each other, and looking so sad and so poor that people gave them alms without being asked. Every Sunday they spent the day in front of the churches, watching the crowds going in and out, and scanning each face for a distant resemblance. Several times they fancied they recognised him, but they were always mistaken.

At the door of one of the churches to which they returned most frequently there was an old man who sprinkled holy water, and who had become their friend. His own story was also very sad, and their commiseration for him led to a great friendship between them. They finally lived together in a wretched garret at the top of a big house, a great distance out, near the open fields, and sometimes the wheelwright took his new friend’s place at the church, when the old man was ill. One very harsh winter came, the old sprinkler of holy water died, and the parish priest appointed in his place the wheelwright, of whose misfortunes he had heard.

Then he came every morning and seated himself in the same place, on the same chair, wearing out the old stone column against which he leant with the continual rubbing of his back. He gazed fixedly at every man who entered, and he looked forward to Sunday with the impatience of a schoolboy, because that was the day when the church was constantly full of people.

He grew very old, getting weaker and weaker under the damp arches, and every day his hope crumbled away. By this time he knew everyone who came to Mass, their hours, their habits, and he could recognise their steps on the tiled floor. His life had become so narrowed that it was a great event for him when a stranger entered the church. One day two ladies came; one old and the other young. Probably a mother and daughter, he thought. Behind them a young man appeared, who followed them, and when they went out he saluted them. After having offered them holy water he took the arm of the older lady.

“That must be the young lady’s intended,” thought the wheelwright.

For the rest of the day he racked his memory to discover where he once had seen a young man like that. But the one he was thinking of must now be an old man, for he seemed to have known him away back in his youth.

The same man came back frequently to escort the two ladies, and this vague resemblance, remote yet familiar, which he could not identify, obsessed the old man so much that he made his wife come to aid his feeble memory.

One evening, as it was getting dark, the strangers entered together. When they had passed, the husband said:

“Well, do you know who he is?”

His wife was troubled and tried, in turn, to remember. Suddenly she whispered:

“Yes⁠ ⁠… yes⁠ ⁠… but he is darker, taller, stronger, and dressed like a gentlemen, yet, father, he has the same face, you know, as you had when you were young.”

The old man gave a start.

It was true, the young man resembled him, and he resembled his brother who was dead, and his father, whom he remembered while he was still young. They were so deeply stirred that they could not speak. The three people were coming down the aisle and going out. The man touched the sprinkler with his finger, and the old man who was holding it shook so much that the holy water rained upon the ground.

“Jean?” he cried.

The man stopped and looked at him.

“Jean?” he repeated softly.

The two ladies looked at him in astonishment.

Then for the third time he said, sobbing: “Jean?”

The man stooped and looked closely into his face, then a recollection of childhood flashed in his mind, and he replied:

“Father Pierre and mother Jeanne!”

He had forgotten everything, his father’s other name, and that of his own birthplace, but he still remembered these two words, so often repeated: “Father Pierre; mother Jeanne!”

He knelt down with his head on the knees of the old man and wept. Then he kissed his father and mother by turns, while their voices were choked by joy unlimited. The two ladies also cried, for they realised that great happiness had come. They all went home with the young man, who told them his story.

The circus people had kidnapped him, and for three years he had travelled with them through many countries. Then the company broke up, and one day an old lady in a château gave a sum of money to adopt him, because she liked him. As he was intelligent, they sent him to school and college, and, as the old lady had no children, she left her fortune to him. He also had searched for his parents, but as the only thing he could remember was the two names, “father Pierre and mother Jeanne,” he could not discover them. Now he was going to be married, and he introduced his fiancée, who was as good as she was pretty.

When the two old people, in their turn, had related their sorrows and sufferings, they embraced him again, and that night they stayed awake very late, for they were afraid to go to bed lest happiness, which had evaded them so long, should abandon them once more, when they were asleep. But they had exhausted the endurance of misfortune, and lived happily till the end.

Lieutenant Laré’s Marriage

At the very beginning of the campaign Lieutenant Laré took two guns from the Prussians. The general said tersely: “Thanks, Lieutenant,” and gave him the cross of the Legion of Honour. Being as prudent as he was brave, subtle, inventive, and very resourceful, he was placed in charge of some hundred men, and he organised a service of scouts which saved the army several times during retreats.

Like a tidal wave the invaders poured over the entire frontier, wave after wave of men, leaving behind them the scum of pillage. General Carrel’s brigade was separated from its division, and had to retreat continuously, taking part in daily engagements, but preserving its ranks almost intact, thanks to the vigilance and speed of Lieutenant Laré, who seemed to be everywhere at once, outwitting the enemy, disappointing their calculations, leading the Uhlans astray, and killing their outposts.

One morning the general sent for him.

“Lieutenant,” he said, “here is a telegram from General de Lacère, who will be lost if we do not come to his help by tomorrow at dawn. You will start at dusk with three hundred men, whom you will station all along the road. I shall follow two hours later. Reconnoitre the route carefully. I do not want to run into an enemy division.”

It had been freezing hard for a week. At two o’clock it began to snow, by the evening the ground was covered, and heavy snowflakes obscured the closest objects. At six o’clock the detachment set out. Two men by themselves marched ahead to act as scouts. Then came a platoon of ten men commanded by the lieutenant himself. The remainder advanced in two long columns. A couple of hundred yards away on the left and right flanks a few soldiers marched in couples. The snow, which was still falling, powdered them white in the darkening shadows, and, as it did not melt on their uniforms, they were barely distinguishable in the dark from the general pallor of the landscape.

From time to time they halted, and then not a sound could be heard but that imperceptible rustle of falling snow, a vague and sinister sound, which is felt rather than heard. An order was given in whispers, and when the march was resumed they had left behind them a sort of white phantom standing in the snow, growing more and more indistinct until finally it disappeared. These were the living signposts which were to guide the army.

The scouts slowed their pace. Something was looming up in front of them.

“Swing to the right,” said the lieutenant, “that’s the woods of Ronfi; the château is more to the left.”

Soon the command to halt was heard. The detachment stopped and waited for the lieutenant, who, escorted by only ten men, had gone to reconnoitre the chateâu. They advanced, creeping under the trees. Suddenly they stopped dead. A frightful silence hovered about them, then, right beside them a clear, musical little voice broke the silence of the woods, saying:

“Father, we shall lose our way in the snow. We shall never reach Blainville.”

A deeper voice replied:

“Don’t be afraid, my child. I know the country as well as the back of my hand.”

The lieutenant said something, and four men moved off noiselessly, like phantoms.

All at once the piercing cry of a woman rang out in the night. Two prisoners were brought to him, an old man and a little girl, and the lieutenant, still speaking in whispers, cross-examined them.

“Your name?”

“Pierre Bernard.”

“Occupation?”

“Comte de Ronfi’s butler.”

“Is this your daughter?”

“Yes.”

“What does she do?”

“She is a sewing-maid at the chateâu.”

“Where are you going to?”

“We are running away.”

“Why?”

“Twelve Uhlans passed this evening. They shot three guards and hanged the gardener. I got frightened about the child.”

“Where are you going to?”

“Blainville.”

“Why?”

“Because there is a French army there.”

“Do you know the way?”

“Perfectly.”

“All right. Follow us.”

They rejoined the column, and the march across the fields was resumed. The old man walked in silence beside the lieutenant. His daughter marched beside him. Suddenly she stopped.

“Father,” she said, “I am so tired I cannot go any farther.”

She sat down, shaking with the cold, and seemed ready to die. Her father tried to carry her, but he was too old and feeble.

“Lieutenant,” he said, with a sob, “we shall be in your way. France comes first. Leave us.”

The officer had given an order, and several men had gone off, returning with some cut branches. In a moment a stretcher was made, and the whole detachment had come up.

“There is a woman here dying of cold,” said the lieutenant, “who will give a coat to cover her?”

Two hundred coats were taken off.

“Now, who will carry her?”

Every arm was placed at her disposal. The girl was wrapped in the warm military coats, laid gently upon the stretcher, and then lifted on to four robust shoulders. Like an Oriental queen carried by her slaves she was placed in the middle of the detachment, which continued its march, more vigorously, more courageously and more joyfully, warmed by the presence of a woman, the sovereign inspiration to which the ancient blood of France owes so much progress.

After an hour there was another halt, and they all lay down in the snow. Away off in the middle of the plain a huge black shadow was running. It was like a fantastic monster, which stretched out like a snake, then suddenly rolled itself up in a ball, bounded forward wildly, stopped and went on again. Whispered orders circulated amongst the men, and from time to time a little, sharp, metallic noise resounded. The wandering object suddenly came nearer, and twelve Uhlans were seen trotting at full speed, one after the other, having lost their way in the night. A terrible flash suddenly revealed two hundred men lying on the ground in front of them. A brief report died away in the silence of the snow, and all twelve, with their twelve horses, fell.

After a long wait the march was resumed, the old man they had picked up acting as guide. At length a distant voice shouted: “Who goes there?” Another voice nearer at hand gave the password. There was another wait, while the parley proceeded. The snow had ceased to fall. A cold wind swept the sky, behind which innumerable stars glittered. They grew pale and the eastern sky became pink.

A staff-officer came up to receive the detachment, but just as he was asking who was on the stretcher, the latter began to move, two little hands opened the heavy coats, and a charming little face, as pink as the dawn, with eyes more bright than the stars which had disappeared, replied:

“It is I, Sir.”

The delighted soldiers applauded, and carried the girl in triumph right into the middle of the camp where the arms were stored. Soon afterwards General Carrel arrived. At nine o’clock the Prussians attacked. At noon they retreated.

That evening, as Lieutenant Laré was dropping off to sleep on a heap of straw, utterly worn out, the general sent for him. He found him in his tent chatting with the old man whom they had picked up during the night. As soon as he entered the general took him by the hand, and turned to the stranger:

“My dear comte,” said he, “here is the young man of whom you were speaking a while back. He is one of my best officers.”

He smiled, lowered his voice, and repeated:

“The best.”

Then, turning to the astonished lieutenant, he introduced “Comte de Ronfi-Quédissac.”

The old gentleman seized his two hands:

“My dear lieutenant, you have saved my daughter’s life, and there is only one way in which I can thank you.⁠ ⁠… You will come in a few months’ time and tell me⁠ ⁠… whether you like her.⁠ ⁠…”

Exactly one year later to the day, in the Church of St. Thomas Aquinas, Captain Laré was married to Mademoiselle Louise Hortense Geneviève de Ronfi-Quédissac. She brought with her a dowry of six hundred thousand francs, and they say she was the prettiest bride of the year.

Simon’s Father

Noon had just struck. The school-door opened and the youngsters streamed out tumbling over one another in their haste to get out quickly. But instead of promptly dispersing and going home to dinner as was their daily wont, they stopped a few paces off, broke up into knots and set to whispering.

The fact was that that morning Simon, the son of La Blanchotte, had, for the first time, attended school.

They had all of them in their families heard of La Blanchotte; and although in public she was welcome enough, the mothers among themselves treated her with compassion of a somewhat disdainful kind, which the children had caught without in the least knowing why.

As for Simon himself, they did not know him, for he never went abroad, and did not play around with them through the streets of the village or along the banks of the river. So they did not like him much, and it was with a certain delight, mingled with astonishment, that they gathered in groups this morning, repeating to each other this phrase pronounced by a lad of fourteen or fifteen who appeared to know all about it, so sagaciously did he wink: “You know Simon⁠—well, he has no father.”

La Blanchotte’s son appeared in his turn upon the threshold of the school.

He was seven or eight years old, rather pale, very neat, with a timid and almost awkward manner.

He was making his way back to his mother’s house when the various groups of his schoolfellows, perpetually whispering, and watching him with the mischievous and heartless eyes of children bent upon playing a nasty trick, gradually surrounded him and ended by enclosing him altogether. There he stood amongst them, surprised and embarrassed, not understanding what they were going to do to him. But the lad who had brought the news, puffed up with the success he had met with, demanded:

“What is your name?”

He answered: “Simon.”

“Simon what?” retorted the other.

The child, altogether bewildered, repeated: “Simon.”

The lad shouted at him: “You must be named Simon something! That is not a name⁠—Simon indeed!”

And he, on the brink of tears, replied for the third time:

“My name is Simon.”

The urchins began laughing. The lad, triumphantly lifted up his voice: “You can see plainly that he has no father.”

A deep silence ensued. The children were dumbfounded by this extraordinary, impossibly monstrous thing⁠—a boy who had no father; they looked upon him as a phenomenon, an unnatural being, and they felt rising in them the hitherto inexplicable pity of their mothers for La Blanchotte. As for Simon, he had propped himself against a tree to avoid falling, and he stood there as if paralysed by an irreparable disaster. He sought to explain, but he could think of no answer for them, no way to deny this horrible charge that he had no father. At last he shouted at them quite recklessly: “Yes, I have one.”

“Where is he?” demanded the boy.

Simon was silent, he did not know. The children shrieked, tremendously excited. These sons of the soil, more animal than human, experienced the cruel craving which makes the fowls of a farmyard destroy one of their own kind as soon as it is wounded. Simon suddenly spied a little neighbour, the son of a widow, whom he had always seen, as he himself was to be seen, quite alone with his mother.

“And no more have you,” he said, “no more have you a father.”

“Yes,” replied the other, “I have one.”

“Where is he?” rejoined Simon.

“He is dead,” declared the brat with superb dignity, “he is in the cemetery, is my father.”

A murmur of approval rose amid the scapegraces, as if the fact of possessing a father dead in a cemetery made their comrade big enough to crush the other one who had no father at all. And these rogues, whose fathers were for the most part evildoers, drunkards, thieves, and harsh with their wives, hustled each other as they pressed closer and closer to Simon as though they, the legitimate ones, would stifle in their pressure one who was beyond the law.

The lad next Simon suddenly put his tongue out at him with a waggish air and shouted at him:

“No father! No father!”

Simon seized him by the hair with both hands and set to work to kick his legs while he bit his cheek ferociously. A tremendous struggle ensued. The two boys were separated and Simon found himself beaten, torn, bruised, rolled on the ground in the middle of the ring of applauding little vagabonds. As he arose, mechanically brushing his little blouse all covered with dust with his hand, someone shouted at him:

“Go and tell your father.”

He then felt a great sinking in his heart. They were stronger than he, they had beaten him and he had no answer to give them, for he knew it was true that he had no father. Full of pride he tried for some moments to struggle against the tears which were suffocating him. He had a choking fit, and then without cries he began to weep with great sobs which shook him incessantly. Then a ferocious joy broke out among his enemies, and, just like savages in fearful festivals, they took one another by the hand and danced in a circle about him as they repeated in refrain:

“No father! No father!”

But suddenly Simon ceased sobbing. Frenzy overtook him. There were stones under his feet; he picked them up and with all his strength hurled them at his tormentors. Two or three were struck and ran away yelling, and so formidable did he appear that the rest became panic-stricken. Cowards, like a jeering crowd in the presence of an exasperated man, they broke up and fled. Left alone, the little thing without a father set off running toward the fields, for a recollection had been awakened which nerved his soul to a great determination. He made up his mind to drown himself in the river.

He remembered, in fact, that eight days ago a poor devil who begged for his livelihood had thrown himself into the water because he was destitute. Simon had been there when they fished him out again; and the sight of the fellow, who had seemed to him so miserable and ugly, had then impressed him⁠—his pale cheeks, his long drenched beard, and his open eyes being full of calm. The bystanders had said:

“He is dead.”

And someone had added:

“He is quite happy now.”

So Simon wished to drown himself also because he had no father, just as the wretched man did who had no money.

He reached the water and watched it flowing. Some fishes were rising briskly in the clear stream and occasionally made little leaps and caught the flies on the surface. He stopped crying in order to watch them, for their feeding interested him vastly. But, at intervals, as in the lulls of a tempest, when tremendous gusts of wind snap off trees and then die away, this thought would return to him with intense pain:

“I am about to drown myself because I have no father.”

It was very warm and lovely. The pleasant sunshine warmed the grass; the water shone like a mirror; and Simon enjoyed for some minutes the happiness of that languor which follows weeping, desirous even of falling asleep there upon the grass in the warmth of noon.

A little green frog leaped from under his feet. He endeavoured to catch it. It escaped him. He pursued it and lost it three times following. At last he caught it by one of its hind legs and began to laugh as he saw the efforts the creature made to escape. It gathered itself up on its large legs and then with a violent spring suddenly stretched them out as stiff as two bars. Its eyes stared wide open in their round, golden circle, and it beat the air with its front limbs, using them as though they were hands. It reminded him of a toy made with straight slips of wood nailed zigzag one on the other, which by a similar movement regulated the exercise of the little soldiers fastened thereon. Then he thought of his home and of his mother, and overcome by great sorrow he again began to weep. His limbs trembled; and he placed himself on his knees and said his prayers as before going to bed. But he was unable to finish them, for such hurried and violent sobs overtook him that he was completely overwhelmed. He thought no more, he no longer heeded anything around him but was wholly given up to tears.

Suddenly a heavy hand was placed upon his shoulder, and a rough voice asked him:

“What is it that causes you so much grief, my little man?”

Simon turned round. A tall workman, with a black beard and curly hair, was staring at him good-naturedly. He answered with his eyes and throat full of tears:

“They have beaten me because I⁠—I have no father⁠—no father.”

“What!” said the man smiling, “why, everybody has one.”

The child answered painfully amid his spasms of grief:

“But I⁠—I⁠—I have none.”

Then the workman became serious. He had recognized La Blanchotte’s son, and although a recent arrival to the neighbourhood he had a vague idea of her history.

“Well,” said he, “console yourself, my boy, and come with me home to your mother. You’ll have a father.”

And so they started on the way, the big one holding the little one by the hand. The man smiled again, for he was not sorry to see this Blanchotte, who by popular report was one of the prettiest girls in the countryside, and, perhaps, he said to himself at the bottom of his heart, that a lass who had erred once might very well err again.

They arrived in front of a very neat little white house.

“There it is,” exclaimed the child, and he cried: “Mamma.”

A woman appeared, and the workman instantly left off smiling, for he at once perceived that there was no more fooling to be done with the tall pale girl, who stood austerely at her door as though to defend from one man the threshold of that house where she had already been betrayed by another. Intimidated, his cap in his hand, he stammered out:

“See, Madame, I have brought you back your little boy, who was lost near the river.”

But Simon flung his arms about his mother’s neck and told her, as he again began to cry:

“No, mamma, I wished to drown myself, because the others had beaten me⁠—had beaten me⁠—because I have no father.”

A painful blush covered the young woman’s cheeks, and, hurt to the quick, she embraced her child passionately, while the tears coursed down her face. The man, much moved, stood there, not knowing how to get away. But Simon suddenly ran up to him and said:

“Will you be my father?”

A deep silence ensued. La Blanchotte, dumb and tortured with shame, leaned against the wall, her hands upon her heart. The child, seeing that no answer was made him, replied:

“If you do not wish it, I shall return to drown myself.”

The workman took the matter as a jest and answered laughing:

“Why, yes, I wish it, certainly.”

“What is your name,” went on the child, “so that I may tell the others when they wish to know your name?”

“Philip,” answered the man.

Simon was silent a moment so that he might get the name well into his memory; then he stretched out his arms, quite consoled, and said:

“Well, then, Philip, you are my father.”

The workman, lifting him from the ground, kissed him hastily on both cheeks, and then strode away quickly.

When the child returned to school next day he was received with a spiteful laugh, and at the end of school, when the lad was about to begin again, Simon threw these words at his head as he would have done a stone: “My father’s name is Philip.”

Yells of delight burst out from all sides.

“Philip who? Philip what? What on earth is Philip? Where did you pick up your Philip?”

Simon answered nothing; and immovable in faith he defied them with his eye, ready to be martyred rather than fly before them. The schoolmaster came to his rescue and he returned home to his mother.

For about three months, the tall workman, Philip, frequently passed by La Blanchotte’s house, and sometimes made bold to speak to her when he saw her sewing near the window. She answered him civilly, always sedately, never joking with him, nor permitting him to enter her house. Notwithstanding this, being like all men, a bit of a coxcomb, he imagined that she was often rosier than usual when she chatted with him.

But a fallen reputation is so difficult to recover, and always remains so fragile that, in spite of the shy reserve La Blanchotte maintained, they already gossiped in the neighbourhood.

As for Simon, he loved his new father very much, and walked with him nearly every evening when the day’s work was done. He went regularly to school and mixed in a dignified way with his schoolfellows without ever answering them back.

One day, however, the lad who had first attacked him said to him:

“You have lied. You have no father called Philip.”

“Why do you say that?” demanded Simon, much disturbed.

The youth rubbed his hands. He replied: “Because if you had one he would be your mamma’s husband.”

Simon was confused by the truth of this reasoning; nevertheless he retorted:

“He is my father all the same.”

“That may well be,” exclaimed the urchin with a sneer, “but that is not being your father altogether.”

La Blanchotte’s little one bowed his head and went off dreaming in the direction of the forge belonging to old Loizon, where Philip worked.

This forge was entombed in trees. It was very dark there, the red glare of a formidable furnace alone lit up with great flashes five blacksmiths, who hammered upon their anvils with a terrible din. Standing enveloped in flame, they worked like demons, their eyes fixed on the red-hot iron they were pounding; and their dull ideas rising and falling with their hammers.

Simon entered without being noticed and quietly plucked his friend by the sleeve. Philip turned round. All at once the work came to a standstill and the men looked on very attentively. Then, in the midst of this unaccustomed silence, rose Simon’s piping voice.

“Philip, explain to me what La Michaude’s boy has just told me, that you are not altogether my father.”

“And why so?” asked the smith.

The child replied in all innocence:

“Because you are not my mamma’s husband.”

No one laughed. Philip remained standing, leaning his forehead upon the back of his great hands, which held the handle of his hammer upright upon the anvil. He mused. His four companions watched him, and, like a tiny mite among these giants, Simon anxiously waited. Suddenly, one of the smiths, voicing the sentiment of all, said to Philip:

“All the same La Blanchotte is a good and honest girl, stalwart and steady in spite of her misfortune, and one who would make a worthy wife for an honest man.”

“That is true,” remarked the three others.

The smith continued:

“Is it the girl’s fault if she has fallen? She had been promised marriage, and I know more than one who is much respected today and has sinned every bit as much.”

“That is true,” responded the three men in chorus.

He resumed:

“How hard she has toiled, poor thing, to educate her lad all alone, and how much she has wept since she no longer goes out, save to church, God only knows.”

“That is also true,” said the others.

Then no more was heard save the roar of the bellows which fanned the fire of the furnace. Philip hastily bent down towards Simon:

“Go and tell your mamma that I shall come to speak to her.”

Then he pushed the child out by the shoulders. He returned to his work and in unison the five hammers again fell upon their anvils. Thus they wrought the iron until nightfall, strong, powerful, happy, like Vulcans satisfied. But as the great bell of a cathedral resounds upon feast days, above the jingling of the other bells, so Philip’s hammer, dominating the noise of the others, clanged second after second with a deafening uproar. His eye on the fire, he plied his trade vigorously, erect amid the sparks.

The sky was full of stars as he knocked at La Blanchotte’s door. He had his Sunday blouse on, a fresh shirt, and his beard was trimmed. The young woman showed herself upon the threshold and said in a grieved tone:

“It is not right to come this way when night has fallen, Mr. Philip.”

He wished to answer, but stammered and stood confused before her.

She resumed.

“And you understand quite well that it will not do that I should be talked about any more.”

Then he said all at once:

“What does that matter to me, if you will be my wife!”

No voice replied to him, but he believed that he heard in the shadow of the room the sound of a body falling. He entered very quickly; and Simon, who had gone to his bed, distinguished the sound of a kiss and some words that his mother said very softly. Then he suddenly found himself lifted up by the hands of his friend, who, holding him at the length of his herculean arms, exclaimed to him:

“You will tell your schoolfellows that your father is Philip Remy, the blacksmith, and that he will pull the ears of all who do you any harm.”

The next day, when the school was full and lessons were about to begin, little Simon stood up quite pale with trembling lips:

“My father,” said he in a clear voice, “is Philip Remy, the blacksmith, and he has promised to box the ears of all who do me any harm.”

This time no one laughed any longer, for he was very well known, was Philip Remy, the blacksmith, and he was a father of whom they would all have been proud.

A Family Affair

The Neuilly steam-tram had just passed the Porte Maillot, and was going along the broad avenue that terminates at the Seine. The small engine that was attached to the car whistled, to warn any obstacle to get out of its way, let off steam, panted like a person out of breath from running, and its pistons made a rapid noise, like iron legs running. The oppressive heat of the end of a summer day lay over the whole city, and from the road, although there was not a breath of wind stirring, there arose a white, chalky, opaque, suffocating, and warm dust which stuck to the moist skin, filled the eyes, and got into the lungs. People were standing in the doors of their houses in search of a little air.

The windows of the steam-tram were down, and the curtains fluttered in the wind. There were very few passengers inside, because on such warm days people preferred the top or the platforms. The few inside consisted of stout women in strange toilettes, shopkeepers’ wives from the suburbs, who made up for the distinguished looks which they did not possess by ill-assumed dignity; of gentlemen tired of their office, with yellow faces, who stooped with one shoulder higher than the other, in consequence of long hours of work bending over the desk. Their uneasy and melancholy faces also spoke of domestic troubles, of constant want of money, of former hopes that had been finally disappointed. They all belonged to that army of poor, threadbare devils who vegetate economically in mean, plastered houses, with a tiny grass border for a garden, in the midst of the district where rubbish is deposited, on the outskirts of Paris.

Near the door a short, fat man, with a puffy face and a big stomach, dressed in black and wearing a decoration in his buttonhole, was talking to a tall, thin man, attired in a dirty, white linen suit all unbuttoned, and wearing a white Panama hat. The former spoke so slowly and hesitatingly, that occasionally it almost seemed as if he stammered; it was Monsieur Caravan, chief clerk in the Admiralty. The other, who had formerly been surgeon on board a merchant ship, had set up in practice in Courbevoie, where he applied the vague remnants of medical knowledge which he had retained after an adventurous life, to healing the wretched population of that district. His name was Chenet, and he had made the people call him Doctor, and strange rumours were current as to his morality.

Monsieur Caravan had always led the normal life of a man in a government office. Every morning for the last thirty years he had invariably gone the same way to his office, had met the same men going to business at the same time and nearly on the same spot, returned home every evening the same way, and again met the same faces, which he had seen growing old. Every morning, after buying his halfpenny paper at the corner of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, he bought his two rolls, and then rushed to his office, like a culprit giving himself up to justice. He got to his desk as quickly as possible, always feeling uneasy, as if expecting a rebuke for some neglect of duty of which he might have been guilty.

Nothing had ever occurred to change the monotonous order of his existence; no event affected him except the work of his office, gratuities, and promotion. He never spoke of anything but of his duties, either at the Admiralty or at home, for he had married the portionless daughter of one of his colleagues. His mind, which was in a state of atrophy from his depressing daily work, had no other thoughts, hopes, or dreams than such as related to the office, and there was a constant source of bitterness that spoiled every pleasure that he might have had, and that was the employment of so many commissioners of the navy, “tinmen,” as they were called, because of their silver-lace, as first-class clerks and heads of departments. Every evening at dinner he discussed the matter hotly with his wife, who shared his angry feelings, and proved to their own satisfaction that it was in every way unjust to give jobs in Paris to men who ought properly to have been employed in the navy.

He was old now, and had scarcely noticed how his life was passing, for school had merely been exchanged, without any transition, for the office, and the ushers at whom he had formerly trembled were replaced by his chiefs, of whom he was terribly afraid. When he had to go into the rooms of these official despots, it made him tremble from head to foot, and that constant fear had given him a very awkward manner in their presence, a humble demeanour, and a kind of nervous stammering.

He knew nothing more about Paris than a blind man could know, who was led to the same spot by his dog every day. If he read the account of any uncommon events, or of scandals, in his halfpenny paper, they appeared to him like fantastic tales, which some pressman had made up out of his own head, in order to amuse minor clerks. He did not read the political news, which his paper frequently altered, as the cause which subsidized them might require, for he was not fond of innovations, and when he went through the Avenue of the Champs-Élysées every evening, he looked at the surging crowd of pedestrians, and at the stream of carriages, like a traveller who has lost his way in a strange country.

As he had completed his thirty years of obligatory service that year, on the first of January, he had had the cross of the Legion of Honour bestowed upon him, which, in the semi-military public offices, is a recompense for the long and miserable slavery⁠—the official phrase is, “loyal services”⁠—of unfortunate convicts who are riveted to their desks. That unexpected dignity gave him a high and new idea of his own capacities, and altogether altered him. He immediately left off wearing light trousers and fancy waistcoats, and wore black trousers and long coats, on which his “ribbon,” which was very broad, showed off better. He got shaved every morning, trimmed his nails more carefully, changed his linen every two days, from a legitimate sense of what was proper, and out of respect for the national Order of which he formed a part. In fact, from that day he was another Caravan, scrupulously clean, majestic, and condescending.

At home, he said, “my cross,” at every moment, and he had become so proud of it that he could not bear to see other men wearing any other ribbon in their buttonholes. He got angry when he saw strange orders, which “nobody ought to be allowed to wear in France,” and he bore Chenet a particular grudge, as he met him on a tramcar every evening, wearing a decoration of some sort or another, white, blue, orange, or green.

The conversation of the two men, from the Arc de Triomphe to Neuilly, was always the same. That day as usual, they discussed, first of all, various local abuses, which disgusted them both, and the mayor of Neuilly received his full share of the blame. Then, as invariably happens in the company of a medical man, Caravan began to enlarge on the subject of illness, as, in that manner, he hoped to obtain a little gratuitous advice, or even a consultation if he were careful enough not to give himself away. His mother had been causing him no little anxiety for some time; she had frequent and prolonged fainting fits, and, although she was ninety, she would not take care of herself.

Caravan grew quite tenderhearted when he mentioned her great age, and more than once asked Doctor Chenet, emphasizing the word “doctor,” whether he had often met anyone as old as that. And he rubbed his hands with pleasure; not, perhaps, that he cared very much about seeing the good woman last forever here on earth, but because the long duration of his mother’s life was, as it were, an earnest of old age for himself. Then he continued:

“In my family, we last long, and I am sure that, unless I meet with an accident, I shall not die until I am very old.”

The officer of health looked at him with pity, glancing for a moment at his neighbour’s red face, his short, thick neck, his “corporation,” as Chenet called it, that hung down between two flaccid, fat legs, and the apoplectic rotundity of the old, flabby official. Lifting the dirty Panama hat which he wore from his head, he said, with a snigger:

“I am not so sure of that, old fellow; your mother is as tough as nails, and I should say that your life is not a very good one.”

This rather upset Caravan, who did not speak again until the tram put them down at their destination. The two friends got out, and Chenet asked his friend to have a glass of vermouth at the Café du Globe, opposite, a place which both of them were in the habit of frequenting. The proprietor, who was a friend of theirs, held out two fingers to them, which they shook across the bottles on the counter, and then they joined three of their friends, who were playing at dominoes, and had been there since midday. They exchanged cordial greetings, with the usual inquiry: “Anything fresh?” Then the three players continued their game, and held out their hands without looking up, when the others wished them “Good night” and went home to dinner.

Caravan lived in a small, two-storied house in Courbevoie, near the meeting of the roads; the ground floor was occupied by a hairdresser. Two bedrooms, a dining room, and a kitchen where mended chairs wandered from room to room, as they were wanted, formed the whole of their apartments, and Madame Caravan spent nearly her whole time in cleaning them up, while her daughter, Marie-Louise, who was twelve, and her son, Philippe-Auguste, were running about with all the little, dirty, mischievous brats of the neighbourhood, and playing in the gutters.

Caravan had installed his mother, whose avarice was notorious in the neighbourhood, and who was terribly thin, in the room above them. She was always in a bad temper and never passed a day without quarrelling and flying into furious tempers. She used to apostrophise the neighbours standing at their own doors, the vegetable venders, the street-sweepers, and the street-boys, in the most violent language. The latter, to have their revenge, used to follow her at a distance when she went out and call out rude things after her.

A little servant from Normandy, who was incredibly giddy and thoughtless, performed the household work, and slept on the second floor in the same room as the old woman, for fear of anything happening to her in the night.

When Caravan got in, his wife, who suffered from a chronic passion for cleaning, was polishing up the mahogany chairs, that were scattered about the room, with a piece of flannel. She always wore cotton gloves and adorned her head with a cap, ornamented with many coloured ribbons, which was always tilted on one ear, and whenever anyone caught her, polishing, sweeping, or washing, she used to say:

“I am not rich; everything is very simple in my house, but cleanliness is my luxury, and that is worth quite as much as any other.”

As she was gifted with sound, obstinate, practical common sense, she swayed her husband in everything. Every evening during dinner, and afterward, when they were in bed, they talked over the business in the office, and, although she was twenty years younger, he confided everything to her as if she had had the direction, and followed her advice in every matter.

She had never been pretty, and now had grown ugly; in addition to that, she was short and thin, while her careless and tasteless way of dressing herself hid the few, small feminine attributes which might have been brought out if she had possessed any skill in dress. Her petticoats were always awry, and she frequently scratched herself, no matter on what place, totally indifferent as to who might be there, out of a sort of habit which had become almost an unconscious movement. The only ornaments that she allowed herself were silk ribbons, which she had in great profusion, and of various colours mixed together, in the pretentious caps which she wore at home.

As soon as she saw her husband she got up, and said, as she kissed him:

“Did you remember Potin, my dear?”

He fell into a chair, in consternation, for that was the fourth time he had forgotten a commission that he had promised to do for her.

“It is a fatality,” he said; “in spite of my thinking of it all day long, I am sure to forget it in the evening.”

But as he seemed really so very sorry, she merely said, quietly:

“You will think of it tomorrow, I daresay. Anything fresh at the office?”

“Yes, a great piece of news: another tinman has been appointed senior chief clerk.” She became angry.

“To what department?”

“The department of Foreign Supplies.”

“So he succeeds Ramon. That was the very post that I wanted you to have. And what about Ramon?”

“He retires on his pension.”

She grew furious, her cap slid down on her shoulder, and she continued:

“There is nothing more to be done in that hole now. And what is the name of the new commissioner?”

“Bonassot.”

She took up the Naval Year Book, which she always kept close at hand, and looked him up:

“ ‘Bonassot⁠—Toulon. Born in 1851. Student-Commissioner in 1871. Sub-Commissioner in 1875.’

Has he been to sea?” she continued, and at that question Caravan’s looks cleared up, and he laughed until his sides shook.

“Just like Balin⁠—just like Balin, his chief.” Then he added an old office joke, and laughed more than ever:

“It would not even do to send them by water to inspect the Point-du-Four, for they would be sick on the Seine steamboats.”

But she remained as serious as if she had not heard him, and then she said in a low voice, while she scratched her chin:

“If only we had a deputy to fall back upon. When the Chamber hears all that is going on at the Admiralty, the minister will be turned out⁠—”

She was interrupted by a terrible noise on the stairs. Marie-Louise and Philippe-Auguste, who had just come in from the gutter, were giving each other slaps all the way upstairs. Their mother rushed at them furiously, and taking each of them by an arm, she dragged them into the room, shaking them vigorously. But as soon as they saw their father, they rushed up to him. He kissed them affectionately, and taking one of them on each knee, he began to talk to them.

Philippe-Auguste was an ugly, ill-kempt little brat, dirty from head to foot, with the face of an idiot, and Marie-Louise was already like her mother⁠—spoke like her, repeated her words, and even imitated her movements. She also asked him whether there was anything fresh at the office, and he replied merrily:

“Your friend, Ramon, who comes and dines here every Sunday, is going to leave us, little one. There is a new senior head-clerk.”

She looked at her father, and with a precocious child’s pity, she said:

“So somebody has been put over your head again!”

He stopped laughing and did not reply. Then, in order to create a diversion, he said, addressing his wife, who was cleaning the windows:

“How is mamma, up there?”

Madame Caravan left off rubbing, turned round, pulled her cap up, as it had fallen quite on to her back, and said, with trembling lips:

“Ah! yes; let us talk about your mother. She has created a pretty scene. Just think that a short time ago Madame Lebaudin, the hairdresser’s wife, came upstairs to borrow a packet of starch from me, and, as I was not at home, your mother called her a beggar woman, and turned her out; but I gave it to the old woman. She pretended not to hear, as she always does when one tells her unpleasant truths, but she is no more deaf than I am, as you know. It is all a sham, and the proof of it is, that she went up to her own room immediately without saying a word.”

Caravan, taken aback, did not utter a word, and at that moment the little servant came in to announce dinner. In order to let his mother know, he took a broom-handle, which always stood hidden in a corner, and rapped loudly on the ceiling three times, and then they went into the dining room. Madame Caravan, junior, helped the soup, and waited for the old woman. But she did not come, and the soup was getting cold, so they began to eat slowly, and when their plates were empty, they waited again. Then Madame Caravan, who was furious, attacked her husband:

“She does it on purpose, you know that as well as I do. But you always uphold her.”

In great perplexity between the two, he sent up Marie-Louise to fetch her grandmother, and sat motionless, with his eyes down, while his wife tapped her glass angrily with her knife. In about a minute the door flew open suddenly, and the child came in again, out of breath, and very pale, and said quickly:

“Grandmamma has fallen down on the ground.”

Caravan jumped up, threw his table-napkin down, and rushed upstairs, while his wife, who thought it was some trick of her mother-in-law, followed more slowly, shrugging her shoulders, as if to express her doubt. When they got upstairs, however, they found the old woman lying at full length in the middle of the room, and when they turned her over they saw that she was insensible and motionless. Her skin looked more wrinkled and yellow than usual, her eyes were closed, her teeth clenched, and her thin body was stiff.

Caravan kneeled down by her and began to moan:

“My poor mother! my poor mother!” he said. But the other Madame Caravan said:

“Bah! She has only fainted again, that is all, and she has done it to prevent us from dining comfortably, you may be sure of that.”

They put her on the bed, undressed her completely, and Caravan, his wife, and the servant began to rub her, but, in spite of their efforts, she did not recover consciousness, so they sent Rosalie, the servant, to fetch “Doctor” Chenet. He lived a long way off, on the quay going toward Suresnes, and so it was a considerable time before he arrived. He came at last, however, and, after having looked at the old woman, felt her pulse, and auscultated her, he said:

“It is all over.”

Caravan threw himself on the body, sobbing violently. He kissed his mother’s rigid face, and wept so that great tears fell on the dead woman’s face, like drops of water. Naturally, Madame Caravan, junior, showed a decorous amount of grief, uttered feeble moans as she stood behind her husband, and she rubbed her eyes vigorously.

But, suddenly, Caravan raised himself up, with his thin hair in disorder, and, looking very ugly in his grief, said:

“But, are you sure, doctor? Are you quite sure?”

The medical man stooped over the body, and, handling it with professional dexterity, as a shopkeeper might do, when showing off his goods, he said: “See, my dear friend, look at her eye.”

He raised the eyelid and the old woman’s look reappeared under his finger, altogether unaltered, unless, perhaps, the pupil was rather larger, and Caravan felt a severe shock at the sight. Then Monsieur Chenet took her thin arm, forced the fingers open, and said, angrily, as if he had been contradicted:

“Just look at her hand; I never make a mistake, you may be quite sure of that.”

Caravan fell on the bed, and almost bellowed, while his wife, still whimpering, did what was necessary.

She brought the night-table, on which she spread a table-napkin. Then she placed four wax candles on it, which she lighted; then took a sprig of box, which was hanging over the chimney glass, and put it between the candles, into the plate, which she filled with clean water, as she had no holy water. After a moment’s rapid reflection, she threw a pinch of salt into the water, no doubt thinking she was performing some sort of act of consecration by doing that. When she had finished the setting which is supposed to be appropriate to Death, she remained standing motionless, and the medical man, who had been helping her, whispered to her:

“We must take Caravan away.”

She nodded assent, and, going up to her husband, who was still on his knees, sobbing, she raised him up by one arm, while Chenet took him by the other.

They put him into a chair, and his wife kissed his forehead and then began to lecture him. Chenet enforced her words, and preached firmness, courage, and resignation⁠—the very things which are always wanting in such overwhelming misfortune⁠—and then both of them took him by the arms again and led him out.

He was crying like a big child, with convulsive sobs; his arms were hanging down and his legs seemed useless; he went downstairs without knowing what he was doing, and moved his legs mechanically. They put him into the chair which he always occupied at dinner, in front of his empty soup-plate. And there he sat, without moving, with his eyes fixed on his glass, so stupefied with grief that he could not even think.

In a corner, Madame Caravan was talking with the doctor, and asking what the necessary formalities were, as she wanted to obtain practical information. At last, Monsieur Chenet, who appeared to be waiting for something, took up his hat and prepared to go, saying that he had not dined yet; whereupon she exclaimed:

“What! You have not dined? But stop here, doctor; don’t go. You shall have whatever we can give you, for, of course, you will understand that we won’t eat much.” However, he made excuses and refused, but she persisted, and said:

“You really must stop; at times like this people like to have friends near them, and, besides that, perhaps you will be able to persuade my husband to take some nourishment; he must keep up his strength.”

The doctor bowed, and, putting down his hat, said:

“In that case, I will accept your invitation, Madame.”

She gave Rosalie, who seemed to have lost her head, some orders, and then sat down, “to pretend to eat,” as she said, “to keep the ‘doctor’ company.”

The soup was brought in again, and Monsieur Chenet took two helpings. Then there came a dish of tripe, which exhaled a smell of onions, and which Madame Caravan made up her mind to taste.

“It is excellent,” the doctor said, at which she smiled, and, turning to her husband, she said:

“Do take a little, my poor Alfred, only just to get something into your stomach. Remember that you have got to pass the night watching by her!”

He held out his plate, docilely, just as he would have gone to bed if he had been told to, obeying her in everything without resistance and without reflection, and, therefore, he ate. The doctor helped himself three times, while Madame Caravan, from time to time, fished out a large piece on the end of her fork, and swallowed it with a sort of studied inattention.

When a salad bowl full of macaroni was brought in, the doctor said:

“By Jove! That is what I am very fond of.” And this time Madame Caravan helped everybody. She even filled the children’s saucers, which they had scraped clean, and who, being left to themselves, had been drinking wine without any water, and were now kicking each other under the table.

Chenet remembered that Rossini, the composer, had been very fond of that Italian dish, and suddenly he exclaimed:

“Why! that rhymes, and one could begin some lines like this:

‘The Maestro Rossini
Was fond of macaroni.’

Nobody listened to him, however. Madame Caravan, who had suddenly grown thoughtful, was thinking of all the probable consequences of the event, while her husband made bread pellets, which he put on the tablecloth, and looked at with a fixed, idiotic stare. As he was devoured by thirst, he was continually raising his glass to his lips, and the consequence was that his senses, already rather upset by the shock and grief, seemed to dance about vaguely in his head, which was heavy from the laborious process of digestion which had begun.

Meanwhile, the doctor, who had been drinking away steadily, was getting visibly drunk, and Madame Caravan herself felt the reaction which follows all nervous shocks. She was agitated and excited, and although she had been drinking nothing but water, she felt her head rather confused.

By and by, Chenet began to relate stories of deaths, that appeared funny to him. In the suburbs of Paris, which are full of people from the provinces, one meets with the indifference toward death, even of a father or a mother, which all peasants show; a want of respect, an unconscious callousness which is common in the country, and rare in Paris. Said he:

“Why, I was sent for last week to the Rue du Puteaux, and when I went, I found the sick person (and there was the whole family calmly sitting near the bed) finishing a bottle of liqueur of aniseed, which had been bought the night before to satisfy the dying man’s fancy.”

But Madame Caravan was not listening; she was continually thinking of the inheritance, and Caravan was incapable of understanding anything.

Soon Rosalie served coffee, which had been made very strong, to keep up their courage, and as every cup was well dosed with cognac, it made all their faces red, and confused their ideas still more. To make matters still worse, Chenet suddenly seized the brandy bottle and poured out “a drop just to wash their mouths out with,” as he termed it, for each of them. Then, without speaking any more, overcome, in spite of themselves, by that feeling of animal comfort which alcohol affords after dinner, they slowly sipped the sweet cognac, which formed a yellowish syrup at the bottom of their cups.

The children had gone to sleep, and Rosalie carried them off to bed. Then, Caravan, mechanically obeying that wish to forget oneself which possesses all unhappy persons, helped himself to brandy again several times, and his dull eyes grew bright. At last the doctor rose to go, and seizing his friend’s arm, he said:

“Come with me; a little fresh air will do you good. When you are in trouble, you must not stick to one spot.”

The other obeyed mechanically, put on his hat, took his stick, and went out, and both of them went arm-in-arm toward the Seine, in the starlight night.

The air was warm and sweet, for all the gardens in the neighbourhood are full of flowers at that season of the year, and their scent, which is scarcely perceptible during the day, seems to awaken at the approach of night, and mingles with the light breezes which blow upon them in the darkness.

The broad avenue, with its two rows of gaslamps, which extend as far as the Arc de Triomphe, was deserted and silent, but there was the distant roar of Paris, which seemed to have a reddish vapour hanging over it. It was a kind of continual rumbling, which was at times answered by the whistle of a train at full speed, in the distance, travelling to the ocean through the provinces.

The fresh air on the faces of the two men rather overcame them at first, made the doctor lose his equilibrium a little, and increased Caravan’s giddiness, from which he had suffered since dinner. He walked as if he were in a dream; his thoughts were paralysed; although he felt no great grief, for he was in a state of mental torpor that prevented him from suffering, and he even felt a sense of relief which was increased by the warm scent of the night.

When they reached the bridge, they turned to the right and faced the fresh breeze from the river, which rolled along, calm and melancholy, bordered by tall poplar-trees. The stars looked as if they were floating on the water and were moving with the current. A slight, white mist that floated over the opposite banks filled their lungs with a sensation of cold, and Caravan stopped suddenly, for he was struck by that smell from the water, which brought back old memories to his mind. For suddenly, in his mind, he saw his mother again, in Picardy, as he had seen her years before, kneeling in front of their door and washing the heaps of linen, by her side, in the little stream that ran through their garden. He almost fancied that he could hear the sound of the wooden beetle with which she beat the linen, in the calm silence of the country, and her voice, as she called out to him: “Alfred, bring me some soap.” And he smelled the odour of the trickling water, of the mist rising from the wet ground, of the heap of wet linen which he should never forget, the less that it came back to him on the very evening on which his mother died.

He stopped, paralysed by a sudden feeling of anguish. It was like a beam of light illuminating all at once the whole extent of his misfortune, and this meeting with vagrant thoughts plunged him into a black abyss of irremediable despair. He felt heartbroken at that eternal separation. His life seemed cut in half, all his youth gone, swallowed up by that death. All the former life was over and done with, all the recollections of his youthful days would vanish; for the future, there would be nobody to talk to him of what had happened in days gone by, of the people he had known of old, of his own part of the country, and of his past life; that was a part of his existence which was gone forever, and the other might as well end now.

Then the procession of memories came. He saw his mother as she was when younger, wearing well-worn dresses, which he remembered for such a long time that they seemed inseparable from her. He recollected her in various forgotten circumstances, her suppressed appearance, the different tones of her voice, her habits, her manias, her fits of anger, the wrinkles on her face, the movements of her thin fingers, and all her well-known attitudes, which she would never have again, and clutching hold of the doctor, he began to moan and weep. His flabby legs began to tremble, his whole stout body was shaken by his sobs, all he could say was:

“My mother, my poor mother, my poor mother!”

But his companion, who was still drunk, and who intended to finish the evening in certain places of bad repute that he frequented secretly, made him sit down on the grass by the riverside, and left him almost immediately, under the pretext that he had to see a patient.

Caravan went on crying for a long time, and then, when he had got to the end of his tears⁠—when his grief had, so to speak, run out of him⁠—he again felt relief, repose, and sudden tranquillity.

The moon had risen and bathed the horizon in its soft light. The tall poplar-trees had a silvery sheen on them, and the mist on the plain looked like floating snow. The river, in which the stars were no longer reflected, and which looked as if it were covered with mother-of-pearl, flowed on, rippled by the wind. The air was soft and sweet, and Caravan inhaled it almost greedily, thinking that he could perceive a feeling of freshness, of calm and of superhuman consolation pervading him.

He really tried to resist that feeling of comfort and relief, and kept on saying to himself: “My mother, my poor mother!” He tried to make himself cry, from a kind of conscientious feeling, but he could not succeed in doing so any longer, and the sad thoughts which had made him sob so bitterly a short time before had almost passed away. In a few moments he rose to go home, and returned slowly, under the influence of that serene night, with a heart soothed in spite of himself.

When he reached the bridge, he saw the last tramcar, ready to start, and the lights through the windows of the Café du Globe, and felt a longing to tell somebody of the catastrophe that had happened, to excite pity, to make himself interesting. He put on a woeful face, pushed open the door, and went up to the counter, where the landlord always stood. He had counted on creating an effect, and had hoped that everybody would get up and come to him with outstretched hands, and say: “Why, what is the matter with you?” But nobody noticed his disconsolate face, so he rested his two elbows on the counter, and, burying his face in his hands, he murmured: “Good heavens! Good heavens!”

The landlord looked at him and said: “Are you ill, Monsieur Caravan?”

“No, my friend,” he replied, “but my mother has just died.”

“Ah!” the other exclaimed, and as a customer at the other end of the establishment asked for a glass of beer, he replied: “All right, I’m coming,” and he went to attend to him, leaving Caravan almost stupefied at his want of sympathy.

The three domino players were sitting at the same table which they had occupied before dinner, totally absorbed in their game, and Caravan went up to them, in search of pity, but as none of them appeared to notice him, he made up his mind to speak.

“A great misfortune has happened to me since I was here,” he said.

All three raised their heads slightly at the same instant, but kept their eyes fixed on the pieces which they held in their hands.

“What do you say?”

“My mother has just died.”

Whereupon one of them said: “Oh! By Jove!” with that false air of sorrow which indifferent people assume. Another, who could not find anything to say, emitted a sort of sympathetic whistle, shaking his head at the same time, and the third turned to the game again, as if he were saying to himself: “Is that all!”

Caravan had expected some of those expressions that are said to “come from the heart,” and when he saw how his news was received he left the table, indignant at their calmness before a friend’s sorrow, although at that moment he was so dazed with grief that he hardly felt it, and went home.

His wife was waiting for him in her nightgown, sitting in a low chair by the open window, still thinking of the inheritance.

“Undress yourself,” she said; “we will talk when we are in bed.”

He raised his head, and looking at the ceiling, he said:

“But there is nobody up there.”

“I beg your pardon, Rosalie is with her, and you can go and take her place at three o’clock in the morning, when you have had some sleep.”

He only partially undressed, however, so as to be ready for anything that might happen, and after tying a silk handkerchief round his head, he joined his wife, who had just got in between the sheets. For some time they remained side by side, and neither of them spoke. She was thinking.

Even in bed, her nightcap was adorned with a pink bow, and was pushed rather over one ear, as was the way with all the caps that she wore. Presently, she turned toward him and said:

“Do you know whether your mother made a will?”

He hesitated for a moment, and then replied:

“I⁠—I do not think so. No, I am sure that she did not.”

His wife looked at him, and she said, in a low, furious voice:

“I call that infamous; here we have been wearing ourselves out for ten years in looking after her, and have boarded and lodged her! Your sister would not have done so much for her, nor I either, if I had known how I was to be rewarded! Yes, it is a disgrace to her memory! I daresay that you will tell me that she paid us, but one cannot pay one’s children in ready money for what they do; that obligation is recognized after death; at any rate, that is how honourable people act. So I have had all my worry and trouble for nothing! Oh, that is nice! that is very nice!”

Poor Caravan, who felt nearly distracted, kept on saying:

“My dear, my dear, please, please be quiet.”

She grew calmer by degrees, and, resuming her usual voice and manner, she continued:

“We must let your sister know tomorrow.”

He started, and said:

“Of course we must; I had forgotten all about it; I will send her a telegram the first thing in the morning.”

“No,” she replied, like a woman who has foreseen everything; “no, do not send it before ten or eleven o’clock, so that we may have time to turn round before she comes. It does not take more than two hours to get here from Charenton, and we can say that you lost your head from grief. If we let her know in the course of the day, that will be soon enough, and will give us time to look round.”

But Caravan put his hand to his forehead, and in the same timid voice in which he always spoke of his chief, the very thought of whom made him tremble, he said:

“I must let them know at the office.”

“Why?” she replied. “On such occasions like this, it is always excusable to forget. Take my advice, and don’t let him know; your chief will not be able to say anything to you, and you will put him into a nice fix.”

“Oh! yes, I shall, indeed, and he will be in a terrible rage, too, when he notices my absence. Yes, you are right; it is a capital idea, and when I tell him that my mother is dead, he will be obliged to hold his tongue.”

And he rubbed his hands in delight at the joke, when he thought of his chief’s face; while the body of the dead old woman lay upstairs, beside the sleeping servant.

But Madame Caravan grew thoughtful, as if she were preoccupied by something which she did not care to mention. But at last she said:

“Your mother had given you her clock, had she not; the girl playing at cup and ball?”

He thought for a moment, and then replied:

“Yes, yes; she said to me a long time ago, when she first came here: ‘I shall leave the clock to you, if you look after me well.’ ”

Madame Caravan was reassured, and regained her serenity, and said:

“Well, then, you must go and fetch it out of her room, for if we get your sister here, she will prevent us from having it.”

He hesitated: “Do you think so?” That made her angry.

“I certainly think so; as soon as it is in our possession, she will know nothing at all about where it came from; it belongs to us. It is just the same with the chest of drawers with the marble top that is in her room; she gave it to me one day when she was in a good temper. We will bring it down at the same time.”

Caravan, however, seemed incredulous, and said:

“But, my dear, it is a great responsibility!”

She turned on him furiously.

“Oh! Indeed! Will you never alter? You would let your children die of hunger, rather than make a move. Does not that chest of drawers belong to us, since she gave it to me? And if your sister is not satisfied, let her tell me so, me! I don’t care a straw for your sister. Come, get up, and we will bring down what your mother gave us, immediately.”

Trembling and vanquished, he got out of bed, and began to put on his trousers, but she stopped him:

“It is not worth while to dress yourself; your underclothes are quite enough; I mean to go as I am.”

They both left the room in their nightclothes, went upstairs quite noiselessly, opened the door, and went into the room where the four lighted tapers and the plate with the sprig of box alone seemed to be watching the old woman in her rigid repose; for Rosalie, who was lying back in the easy-chair with her legs stretched out, her hands folded in her lap, and her head on one side, was also quite motionless, and snoring with her mouth wide open.

Caravan took the clock, which was one of those grotesque objects that were produced so plentifully under the Empire. A girl in gilt bronze was holding a cup and ball, and the ball formed the pendulum.

“Give that to me,” his wife said, “and take the marble top off the chest of drawers.”

He put the marble on his shoulder with a considerable effort, and they left the room. Caravan had to stoop in the doorway, and trembled as he went downstairs, while his wife walked backward, so as to light him, holding the candlestick in one hand and the clock under her other arm.

When they were in their own room, she heaved a sigh.

“We have got over the worst part of the job,” she said; “so now let us go and fetch the other things.”

But the drawers were full of the old woman’s wearing apparel which they must manage to hide somewhere, and Madame Caravan soon thought of a plan.

“Go and get that wooden box in the passage; it is hardly worth anything and we may just as well put it here.”

And when he had brought it upstairs, the change began. One by one, she took out all the collars, cuffs, chemises, caps, all the well-worn things that had belonged to the poor woman lying there behind them, and arranged them methodically in the wooden box, in such a manner as to deceive Madame Braux, the deceased woman’s other child, who would be coming the next day.

When they had finished, they first of all carried the drawers downstairs, and the remaining portion afterward, each of them holding an end. It was some time before they could make up their minds where it would stand best; but at last they settled upon their own room, opposite the bed, between the two windows. As soon as it was in its place, Madame Caravan filled it with her own things. The clock was placed on the chimneypiece in the dining room. They looked to see what the effect was, and were both delighted with it, agreeing that nothing could be better. Then they got into bed, she blew out the candle, and soon everybody in the house was asleep.

It was broad daylight when Caravan opened his eyes again. His mind was rather confused when he woke up, and he did not clearly remember what had happened for a few minutes; when he did, he felt it painfully, and jumped out of bed, almost ready to cry again.

He very soon went to the room overhead, where Rosalie was still sleeping in the same position as the night before, for she did not wake up once during the whole time. He sent her to do her work, put fresh tapers in the place of those that had burned out, and then he looked at his mother, revolving in his mind those apparently profound thoughts, those religious and philosophical commonplaces, which trouble people of mediocre minds in the face of death.

But he went downstairs as soon as his wife called him. She had written out a list of what had to be done during the morning, which rather frightened him when he saw it.

1. Lodge a declaration of death at the Town Hall.

2. See the coroner.

3. Order the coffin.

4. Give notice to the church.

5. Go to the undertaker.

6. Order the notices of her death at the printer’s.

7. Go to the lawyer.

8. Telegraph the news to all the family.

Besides all this, there were a number of small commissions; so he took his hat and went out. As the news had got abroad, Madame Caravan’s female friends and neighbours soon began to come in, and begged to be allowed to see the body. There had been a scene at the hairdresser’s, on the ground floor, about the matter, between husband and wife, while he was shaving a customer. While busily knitting the woman had said: “Well, there is one less, and one as great a miser as one ever meets with. I certainly was not very fond of her; but, nevertheless, I must go and have a look at her.”

The husband, while lathering his customer’s chin, said:

“That is another queer fancy! Nobody but a woman would think of such a thing. It is not enough for them to worry you during life, but they cannot even leave you in peace when you are dead.”

But his wife, not put out in the least, replied: “I can’t help it; I must go. It has been on me since the morning. If I were not to see her, I should think about it all my life, but when I have had a good look at her, I shall be satisfied.”

The knight of the razor shrugged his shoulders, and remarked in a low voice to the gentleman whose cheek he was scraping:

“Now, what sort of ideas do you think these confounded females have? I should not amuse myself by inspecting a corpse!”

But his wife heard him, and replied very quietly:

“But I do, I do.” And then, putting her knitting down on the counter, she went upstairs, to the first floor, where she met two other neighbours. These had just come, and were discussing the event with Madame Caravan, who was giving them the details. Then the four went together to the mortuary chamber. The women went in softly, and, one after the other, sprinkled the bedclothes with the salted water, kneeled down, made the sign of the cross while they mumbled a prayer, then got up, and, open-mouthed, regarded the corpse for a long time, while the daughter-in-law of the dead woman, with her handkerchief to her face, pretended to be sobbing piteously.

When she turned to walk away, whom should she perceive standing close to the door but Marie-Louise and Philippe-Auguste, who were curiously taking stock of things. Then, forgetting to control her temper, she threw herself upon them with up lifted hand, crying out in a furious voice: “Will you get out of this, you brats.”

Ten minutes later, going upstairs again with another contingent of neighbours, she prayed, wept profusely, performed all her duties, and again caught the children following her upstairs. She boxed their ears soundly, but the next time she paid no heed to them, and at each fresh influx of visitors the two urchins followed in the wake, crowded themselves up in a corner, slavishly imitating everything they saw their mother do.

When afternoon came round the crowds of curious people began to diminish, and soon there were no more visitors. Madame Caravan, returning to her own apartments, began to make the necessary preparations for the funeral ceremony, and the deceased was left by herself.

The window of the room was open. A torrid heat entered along with clouds of dust; the flames of the four candles were flickering in the direction of the corpse, and upon the cloth which covered the face, the closed eyes, the two hands stretched out, small flies alighted, came, went, and buzzed up and down incessantly, being the only companions of the old woman during the next hour.

Marie-Louise and Philippe-Auguste, however, had now left the house, and were running up and down the street. They were soon surrounded by their playmates, and by little girls, especially, who were older, and who were interested in the mysteries of life, and asked questions in the manner of persons of great importance.

“Then your grandmother is dead?”

“Yes, she died yesterday evening.”

“What does a dead person look like?”

Then Marie began to explain, telling all about the candles, the sprig of box and the cadaverous face. It was not long before great curiosity was aroused in the breasts of all the children, and they asked to be allowed to go upstairs to look at the departed.

Then Marie-Louise arranged a party for the first visit, consisting of five girls and two boys⁠—the biggest and the most courageous. She made them take off their shoes so that they might not be discovered. The troop filed into the house and mounted the stairs as stealthily as an army of mice.

Once in the chamber, the little girl, imitating her mother, regulated the ceremony. She solemnly walked in advance of her comrades, went down on her knees, made the sign of the cross, moistened the lips of the corpse with a few drops of water, stood up again, sprinkled the bed, and while the children all crowded together were approaching⁠—frightened and curious, and eager to look at the face and hands of the deceased⁠—she began suddenly to simulate sobbing, and to bury her eyes in her little handkerchief. Then, instantly consoled on thinking of the other children downstairs waiting at the door, she withdrew in haste, returning in a minute with another group, and then a third; for all the little ruffians of the neighbourhood, even to the little beggars in rags, had congregated in order to participate in this new pleasure. Each time she repeated her mother’s grimaces with absolute perfection.

At length, however, she tired of it. Some game or another attracted the children away from the house, and the old grandmother was left alone, forgotten suddenly by everybody.

A dismal gloom pervaded the chamber, and upon the dry and rigid features of the corpse the dying flames of the candles cast occasional gleams of light.

Toward eight o’clock, Caravan ascended to the chamber of death, closed the windows, and renewed the candles. On entering now he was quite composed, evidently accustomed to regard the corpse as though it had been there for a month. He even went the length of declaring that, as yet, there were no signs of decomposition, making this remark just at the moment when he and his wife were about to sit down at table. “Pshaw!” she responded, “she is made of wood; she will keep for a year.”

The soup was eaten without a word being uttered by anyone. The children, who had been free all day, were now worn out by fatigue and were sleeping soundly in their chairs, and nobody ventured to break the silence.

Suddenly the flame of the lamp went down. Madame Caravan immediately turned up the wick, a prolonged, gurgling noise ensued, and the light went out. She had forgotten to buy oil during the day. To send for it now to the grocer’s would keep back the dinner, and everybody began to look for candles. But none were to be found except the night lights which had been placed upon the table upstairs, in the death-chamber.

Madame Caravan, always prompt in her decisions, quickly dispatched Marie-Louise to fetch two, and her return was awaited in total darkness.

The footsteps of the girl who had ascended the stairs were distinctly heard. Then followed silence for a few seconds, and then the child descended precipitately. She threw open the door affrighted, and in a choked voice murmured: “Oh! papa, grandmamma is dressing herself!”

Caravan bounded to his feet with such precipitation that his chair rolled over against another chair. He stammered out: “What! What do you say?”

But Marie-Louise, gasping with emotion, repeated: “Grand⁠—grand⁠—grandmamma is putting on her clothes, and is coming downstairs.”

Caravan rushed boldly up the staircase, followed by his wife, dumbfounded; but he came to a standstill before the door of the room, overcome with terror, not daring to enter. What was he going to see? Madame Caravan, more courageous, turned the handle of the door and stepped forward into the room.

The room seemed to be darker, and in the middle of it, a tall emaciated figure moved about. The old woman stood upright, and in awakening from her lethargic sleep, before even full consciousness had returned to her, in turning upon her side and raising herself on her elbow, she had extinguished three of the candles which burned near the mortuary bed. Then, recovering her strength, she got out of bed and began to look for her things. The absence of her chest of drawers had at first given her some trouble, but, after a little, she had succeeded in finding her things at the bottom of the wooden trunk, and was now quietly dressing. She emptied the dishful of salted water, replaced the box which contained the latter behind the looking-glass, arranged the chairs in their places, and was ready to go downstairs when her son and daughter-in-law appeared.

Caravan rushed forward, seized her by the hands, and embraced her with tears in his eyes, while his wife, who was behind him, repeated in a hypocritical tone of voice: “Oh, what a blessing! Oh, what a blessing!”

But the old woman, not at all moved, without even appearing to understand, as rigid as a statue, and with glazed eyes, simply asked: “Will dinner soon be ready?”

He stammered out, not knowing what he said:

“Oh, yes, mother, we have been waiting for you.”

And with an alacrity unusual in him he took her arm, while Madame Caravan the younger seized the candle and lighted them downstairs, walking backward in front of them, step by step, just as she had done the previous night, in front of her husband, when he was carrying the marble.

On reaching the first floor, she ran against people who were ascending. It was the family from Charenton, Madame Braux, followed by her husband.

The wife, tall and fleshy, with the stomach of a victim of dropsy, opened wide her astonished eyes, ready to take flight. The husband, a shoemaker and socialist, a little hairy man, the perfect image of a monkey, murmured, quite unconcerned: “Well, what next? Is she resurrected?”

As soon as Madame Caravan recognized them, she made despairing signs to them; then speaking aloud, she said: “Mercy! How do you mean! Look there! What a happy surprise!”

But Madame Braux, dumbfounded, understood nothing. She responded in a low voice: “It was your telegram which made us come; we believed it was all over.”

Her husband, who was behind her, pinched her to make her keep silent. He added with a malignant laugh, which his thick beard concealed: “It was very kind of you to invite us here. We set out in post-haste”⁠—a remark which showed clearly the hostility that for a long time had reigned between the households. Then, just as the old woman had arrived at the last steps, he pushed forward quickly and rubbed against her cheeks the hair which covered his face, bawling out in her ear, on account of her deafness: “How well you look, mother; sturdy as usual, hey!”

Madame Braux, in her amazement at seeing the old woman alive whom they all believed to be dead, dared not even embrace her; and her enormous bulk blocked up the passage and hindered the others from advancing. The old woman, uneasy and suspicious, but without speaking, looked at everyone around her. Her little gray eyes, piercing and hard, fixed themselves now on the one and now on the other, full of thoughts which could be read by her embarrassed children.

Caravan, to explain matters, said: “She has been somewhat ill, but she is quite better now⁠—quite well, indeed, are you not, mother?”

Then the good woman, stopping in her walk, responded in a husky voice, as though it came from a distance: “It was catalepsy. I heard you all the while.”

An embarrassing silence followed. They entered the dining room, and in a few minutes sat down to an improvised dinner.

Only Monsieur Braux had retained his self-possession; his gorilla features grinned wickedly, while he let fall some words of double meaning which painfully disconcerted everyone.

But the bell in the hall kept on ringing every second; and Rosalie, who had lost her head, came looking for Caravan, who dashed out, throwing down his napkin. His brother-in-law even asked him whether it was not one of his visiting days, to which he stammered out, “No, a few messages; nothing of importance.”

Next, a packet was brought in, which he began to open without thinking, and the death announcements, with black borders, appeared. Reddening up to the very eyes, Caravan closed the envelope, and pushed it into his waistcoat pocket.

His mother had not seen it! She was looking intently at her clock, which stood on the mantelpiece, and the embarrassment increased in midst of a glacial silence. Turning her wrinkled old witch’s face toward her daughter, the old woman, from whose eyes flashed fierce malice, said:

“On Monday bring me your little girl. I want so much to see her.”

Madame Braux, her features illuminated, exclaimed: “Yes, mother, I will,” while Madame Caravan, the younger, became pale, and seemed to be enduring the most excruciating agony. The two men, however, gradually drifted into conversation, and soon became embroiled in a political discussion. Braux maintained the most revolutionary and communistic doctrines, gesticulating and throwing about his arms, his eyes gleaming in his hairy countenance.

“Property, sir,” he said, “is a robbery perpetrated on the working classes; the land is the common property of every man; hereditary rights are an infamy and a disgrace.” But, hereupon, he suddenly stopped, having all the appearance of a man who has just said something foolish: then, resuming, after a pause, he said in softer tones: “But, I can see quite well that this is not the proper moment to discuss things.”

The door was opened, and “Doctor” Chenet appeared. For a moment he seemed bewildered, but regaining his composure, he approached the old woman, and said:

“Ah, ha! mamma, you are better today. Oh! I never had any doubt but you would come round again; in fact, I said to myself as I was mounting the staircase: ‘I have an idea that I shall find the old woman on her feet once more.’ ” Then he tapped her gently on the back: “Ah! she is as solid as the Pont-Neuf, she will bury us all out: you will see if she does not.”

He sat down, accepted the coffee that was offered him, and soon began to join in the conversation of the two men, backing up Braux, for he himself had been mixed up in the Commune.

Now the old woman, feeling herself fatigued, wished to leave the room, at which Caravan rushed forward. She thereupon looked him in the eyes and said to him:

“You must carry my clock and chest of drawers upstairs again without a moment’s delay.”

“Yes, mamma,” he replied, stammering; “yes, I will do so.”

The old woman then took the arm of her daughter and withdrew from the room. The two Caravans remained rooted to the floor, silent, plunged in the deepest despair, while Braux rubbed his hands and sipped his coffee, gleefully.

Suddenly Madame Caravan, consumed with rage, attacked him, exclaiming: “You are a thief, a scoundrel, a cur. I would spit in your face, if⁠—I would⁠—I⁠—would⁠—” She could find nothing further to say, suffocating as she was with rage, while Braux still sipped his coffee, laughing.

His wife, returning just then, rushed at her sister-in-law, and both⁠—the one with her enormous bulk, the other, epileptic and spare⁠—with angry voices and hands trembling, hurled wild insults at each other.

Chenet and Braux now interposed, and the latter, taking his better half by the shoulders, pushed her out of the door in front of him, shouting:

“Get out, you ass: you make too much noise.” Then the two were heard in the street quarrelling with each other, until they had disappeared in the distance.

Monsieur Chenet also took his departure, leaving the Caravans alone, face to face. The husband fell back in his chair, and with the cold sweat standing out in beads on his temples murmured: “What on earth shall I say at the office?”

Boule de Suif

For several days in succession straggling remnants of the routed army had passed through the town. They were not the regular army, but a disjointed rabble, the men unshaven and dirty, their uniforms in tatters, slouching along without regimental colors, without order⁠—worn out, broken down, incapable of thought or resolution, marching from pure habit and dropping with fatigue the moment they stopped. The majority belonged to the militia, men of peaceful pursuits, retired from business, sinking under the weight of their accoutrements; quick-witted little militiamen as prone to terror as they were to enthusiasm, as ready to attack as they were to fly; and here and there a few red trousers, remnants of a company mowed down in one of the big battles; sombre-coated artillerymen, side by side with these various uniforms of the infantry, and now and then the glittering helmet of a heavily booted dragoon who followed with difficulty the march of the lighter-footed soldiers of the line.

Companies of franc-tireurs, heroically named “Avengers of the Defeat,” “Citizens of the Tomb,” “Companions in Death,” passed in their turn, looking like a horde of bandits.

Their chiefs⁠—formerly drapers or corn-dealers, retired soap-boilers or suet-refiners, temporary heroes, created officers for their money or the length of their moustaches, heaped with arms, flannels, and gold lace⁠—talked loudly, discussed plans of campaign, and gave you to understand that they were the sole support of France in her death-agony; but they were generally in terror of their own soldiers, gallows birds, most of them brave to foolhardiness, all of them given to pillage and debauchery.

Report said that the Prussians were about to enter Rouen. The National Guard, which for two months past had made the most careful reconnoitreings in the neighbouring wood, even to the extent of occasionally shooting their own sentries and putting themselves in battle array if a rabbit stirred in the brushwood, had now retired to their domestic hearths; their arms, their uniforms, all the murderous apparatus with which they had been wont to strike terror to the hearts of all beholders for three leagues round, had vanished.

Finally, the last of the French soldiery crossed the Seine on their way to Pont-Audemer by Saint Sever and Bourg-Achard; and then, last of all, came their despairing general tramping on foot between two orderlies, powerless to attempt any action with these disjointed fragments of his forces, himself utterly dazed and bewildered by the downfall of a people accustomed to victory and now so disastrously beaten in spite of its traditional bravery.

After that a profound calm, the silence of terrified suspense, fell over the city. Many a rotund bourgeois, emasculated by a purely commercial life, awaited the arrival of the victors with anxiety, trembling lest their meat-skewers and kitchen carving-knives should come under the category of arms.

Life seemed to have come to a standstill, the shops were closed, the streets silent. From time to time an inhabitant, intimidated by their silence, would flit rapidly along the pavement, keeping close to the walls.

In this anguish of suspense, men longed for the coming of the enemy.

In the latter part of the day following the departure of the French troops, some Uhlans, appearing from goodness knows where, traversed the city hastily. A little later, a black mass descended from the direction of Sainte-Catherine, while two more invading torrents poured in from the roads from Darnétal and Boisguillaume. The advance guards of the three corps converged at the same moment into the square of the Hotel de Ville, while battalion after battalion of the German army wound in through the adjacent streets, making the pavement ring under their heavy rhythmic tramp.

Orders shouted in strange and guttural tones were echoed back by the apparently dead and deserted houses, while from behind the closed shutters eyes peered furtively at the conquerors, masters by right of might, of the city and the lives and fortunes of its inhabitants. The people in their darkened dwellings fell a prey to the helpless bewilderment which comes over men before the floods, the devastating upheavals of the earth, against which all wisdom and all force are unavailing. The same phenomenon occurs each time that the established order of things is overthrown, when public security is at an end, and when all that the laws of man or of nature protect is at the mercy of some blind elemental force. The earthquake burying an entire population under its falling houses; the flood that carries away the drowned body of the peasant with the carcasses of his cattle and the beams torn from his rooftree; or the victorious army massacring those who defend their lives, and making prisoners of the rest⁠—pillaging in the name of the sword, and thanking God to the roar of cannon⁠—are so many appalling scourges which overthrow all faith in eternal justice, all the confidence we are taught to place in the protection of Providence and the reason of man.

Small detachments now began knocking at the doors and then disappearing into the houses. It was the occupation after the invasion. It now behooved the vanquished to make themselves agreeable to the victors.

After a while, the first alarms having subsided, a new sense of tranquillity began to establish itself. In many families the Prussian officer shared the family meals. Not infrequently he was a gentleman, and out of politeness expressed his commiseration with France and his repugnance at having to take part in such a war. They were grateful enough to him for this sentiment⁠—besides, who knew when they might not be glad of his protection? By gaining his good offices one might have fewer men to feed. And why offend a person on whom one was utterly dependent? That would not be bravery but temerity, a quality of which the citizens of Rouen could no longer be accused as in the days of those heroic defences by which the city had made itself famous. Above all, they said, with the unassailable urbanity of the Frenchman, it was surely permissible to be on politely familiar terms in private, provided one held aloof from the foreign soldier in public. In the street, therefore, they ignored one another’s existence, but once indoors they were perfectly ready to be friendly, and each evening found the German staying longer at the family fireside.

The town itself gradually regained its wonted aspect. The French inhabitants did not come out much, but the Prussian soldiers swarmed in the streets. For the rest, the blue hussar officers who trailed their mighty implements of death so arrogantly over the pavement did not appear to entertain a vastly deeper grade of contempt for the simple townsfolk than did the officers of the Chasseurs who had drunk in the same cafés the year before. Nevertheless there was a something in the air; something subtle and indefinable, an intolerably unfamiliar atmosphere like a widely diffused odour⁠—the odour of invasion. It filled the private dwellings and the public places, it affected the taste of food, and gave one the impression of being on a journey, far away from home, among barbarous and dangerous tribes.

The conquerors demanded money⁠—a great deal of money. The inhabitants paid and went on paying; for the matter of that, they were rich. But the wealthier a Normandy tradesman becomes, the more keenly he suffers at each sacrifice each time he sees the smallest particle of his fortune pass into the hands of another.

Two or three leagues beyond the town, however, following the course of the river about Croisset, Dieppedalle or Biessard, the sailors and the fishermen would often drag up the swollen corpse of some uniformed German, killed by a knife-thrust or a kick, his head smashed in by a stone, or thrown into the water from some bridge. The slime of the river bed swallowed up many a deed of vengeance, obscure, savage, and legitimate; unknown acts of heroism, silent onslaughts more perilous to the doer than battles in the light of day and without the trumpet blasts of glory.

For hatred of the Alien is always strong enough to arm some intrepid beings who are ready to die for an Idea.

At last, seeing that though the invaders had subjected the city to their inflexible discipline they had not committed any of the horrors with which rumour had accredited them throughout the length of their triumphal progress, the public took courage and the commercial spirit began once more to stir in the hearts of the local tradespeople. Some of them who had grave interests at stake at Havre, then occupied by the French army, purposed trying to reach that port by going overland to Dieppe and there taking ship.

They took advantage of the influence of German officers whose acquaintance they had made, and a passport was obtained from the general in command.

Having therefore engaged a large diligence with four horses for the journey, and ten persons having entered their names at the livery stable office, they resolved to start on the Tuesday morning before daybreak, to avoid all public remark.

For some days already the ground had been hard with frost, and on the Monday, about three o’clock in the afternoon, thick dark clouds coming up from the north brought the snow, which fell without intermission all the evening and during the whole night.

At half past four the travellers were assembled in the courtyard of the Hotel de Normandie, from whence they were to start.

They were all still half asleep, their teeth chattering with cold in spite of their thick wraps. It was difficult to distinguish one from another in the darkness, their heaped-up winter clothing making them look like fat priests in long cassocks. Two of the men, however, recognized each other; they were joined by a third, and they began to talk. “I am taking my wife with me,” said one. “So am I.” “And I too.” The first one added: “We shall not return to Rouen, and if the Prussians come to Havre we shall slip over to England.”

They were all like-minded and all had the same project.

Meanwhile there was no sign of the horses being put in. A small lantern carried by a hostler appeared from time to time out of one dark doorway only to vanish instantly into another. There was a stamping of horses’ hoofs deadened by the straw of the litter, and the voice of a man speaking to the animal and cursing sounded from the depths of the stables. A faint sound of bells gave evidence of harnessing, and became presently a clear and continuous jingle timed by the movement of the beast, now stopping, now going on again with a brisk shake, and accompanied by the dull tramp of hobnailed sabots.

A door closed sharply. All sound ceased. The frozen travellers were silent, standing stiff and motionless. A continuous curtain of white snowflakes glistened as it fell to the ground, blotting out the shape of things, powdering everything with an icy froth; and in the utter stillness of the town, quiet and buried under its winter pall, nothing was audible but this faint, fluttering, and indefinable rustle of falling snow⁠—more a sensation than a sound⁠—the intermingling of ethereal atoms seeming to fill space, to cover the world.

The man reappeared with his lantern, dragging after him by a rope a dejected and unwilling horse. He pushed it against the pole, fixed the traces, and was occupied for a long time in buckling the harness, having only the use of one hand as he carried the lantern in the other. As he turned away to fetch the other horse he caught sight of the motionless group of travellers, by this time white with snow. “Why don’t you get inside the carriage?” he said, “you would at least be under cover.”

It had never occurred to them, and they made a rush for it. The three men packed their wives into the upper end and then got in themselves, after which other distinct and veiled forms took the remaining seats without exchanging a word.

The floor of the vehicle was covered with straw into which the feet sank. The ladies at the end, who had brought little copper charcoal foot-warmers, proceeded to light them, and for some time discussed their merits in subdued tones, repeating to one another things which they had known all their lives.

At last, the diligence having been furnished with six horses instead of four on account of the difficulties of the road, a voice outside asked, “Is everybody here?” A voice from within answered “Yes,” and they started.

The conveyance advanced slowly⁠—slowly⁠—the wheels sinking in the snow; the whole vehicle groaned and creaked, the horses slipped, wheezed, and smoked, and the driver’s gigantic whip cracked incessantly, flying from side to side, twining and untwining like a slender snake, and cutting sharply across one or other of the six humping backs, which would thereupon straighten up with a more violent effort.

Imperceptibly the day grew. The airy flakes which a traveller⁠—a true-born Rouennais⁠—likened to a shower of cotton, had ceased to fall; a dirty grey light filtered through the heavy thick clouds which served to heighten the dazzling whiteness of the landscape, where now a long line of trees crusted with icicles would appear, now a cottage with a hood of snow.

In the light of this melancholy dawn the occupants of the diligence began to examine one another curiously.

Right at the end, in the best seats, opposite to one another, dozed Madame and Monsieur Loiseau, wholesale wine merchant of the Rue Grand Pont.

The former salesman of a master who had become bankrupt, Loiseau had bought up the stock and made his fortune. He sold very bad wine at very low prices to the small country retail dealers, and enjoyed the reputation among his friends and acquaintances of being an unmitigated rogue, a thorough Norman full of trickery and jovial humour.

His character for knavery was so well established that one evening at the Prefecture, Monsieur Tournel, a man of keen and trenchant wit, author of certain fables and songs⁠—a local celebrity⁠—seeing the ladies growing drowsy, proposed a game of “L’oiseau vole.”4 The pun itself flew through the prefect’s reception rooms and afterwards through the town, and for a whole month called up a grin on every face in the province.

Loiseau was himself a noted wag and famous for his jokes both good and bad, and nobody ever mentioned him without adding immediately, “That man, Loiseau, is simply priceless!”

He was of medium height with a balloon-like stomach and a rubicund face framed in grizzled whiskers. His wife⁠—tall, strong, resolute, loud in voice and rapid of decision⁠—represented order and arithmetic in the business, which he enlivened by his jollity and bustling activity.

Beside them, in a more dignified attitude as befitted his superior station, sat Monsieur Carré-Lamadon, a man of weight; an authority on cotton, proprietor of three spinning factories, officer of the Legion of Honour and member of the General Council. All the time of the Empire he had remained leader of a friendly opposition, for the sole purpose of making a better thing out of it when he came round to the cause which he had fought with polite weapons, to use his own expression. Madame Carré-Lamadon, who was much younger than her husband, was the consolation of all officers of good family who might be quartered at the Rouen garrison. She sat there opposite to her husband, very small, very dainty, very pretty, wrapped in her furs, and regarding the lamentable interior of the vehicle with despairing eyes.

Their neighbours, the Count and Countess Hubert de Bréville, bore one of the most ancient and noble names in Normandy. The Count, an elderly gentleman of dignified appearance, did all in his power to accentuate by every artifice of the toilet his natural resemblance to Henri Quatre, who, according to a legend of the utmost glory to the family, had honoured with his royal embraces a Dame de Bréville, whose husband, in consequence, had been made Count and Governor of the province.

A colleague of Monsieur Carré-Lamadon in the General Council, Count Hubert represented the Orléanist faction in the department. The history of his marriage with the daughter of a small tradesman of Nantes had always remained a mystery. But as the Countess had an air of grandeur, understood better than anyone else the art of receiving, passed even for having been beloved by one of the sons of Louis Philippe, the neighbouring nobility bowed down to her, and her salon held the first place in the county, the only one which preserved the traditions of old-fashioned gallantry and to which the entrée was difficult.

The fortune of the Brévilles⁠—all in Government Funds⁠—was reported to yield them an income of five hundred thousand francs.

The six passengers occupied the upper end of the conveyance, the representatives of revenued society, serene in the consciousness of its strength⁠—honest well-to-do people possessed of Religion and Principles.

By some strange chance all the women were seated on the same side, the Countess having two Sisters of Mercy for neighbours, wholly occupied in fingering their long rosaries and mumbling Paters and Aves. One of them was old and so deeply pitted with the smallpox that she looked as if she had received a charge of grapeshot full in the face; the other was very shadowy and frail, with a pretty unhealthy little face, a narrow phthisical chest, consumed by that devouring faith which creates martyrs and ecstatics.

Seated opposite to the two nuns were a man and woman who excited a good deal of attention.

The man, who was well known, was Cornudet, “the Democrat,” the terror of all respectable, law-abiding people. For twenty years he had dipped his great red beard into the beer mugs of all the democratic cafés. In the company of kindred spirits he had managed to run through a comfortable little fortune inherited from his father, a confectioner, and he looked forward with impatience to the Republic, when he should obtain the well-merited reward for so many revolutionary draughts. On the Fourth of September⁠—probably through some practical joke⁠—he understood that he had been appointed prefect, but on attempting to enter upon his duties the clerks, who had remained sole masters of the offices, refused to recognize him, and he was constrained to retire. For the rest, he was a good fellow, inoffensive and serviceable, and had busied himself with incomparable industry in organizing the defence of the town; had had holes dug all over the plain, cut down all the young trees in the neighbouring woods, scattered pitfalls up and down all the high roads, and at the threatened approach of the enemy⁠—satisfied with his preparations⁠—had fallen back with all haste on the town. He now considered that he would be more useful in Havre, where fresh entrenchments would soon become necessary.

The woman, one of the so-called “gay” sisterhood, was noted for her precocious stoutness, which had gained her the nickname of “Boule de Suif”⁠—“ball of fat.” She was a little roly-poly creature, cushioned with fat, with podgy fingers squeezed in at the joints like rows of thick, short sausages; her skin tightly stretched and shiny, her bust enormous, and yet she was attractive and much sought after, her freshness was so pleasant. Her face was like a ruddy apple⁠—a peony rose just burst into bloom⁠—and out of it gazed a pair of magnificent dark eyes overshadowed by long thick lashes that deepened their blackness; and lower down, a charming little mouth, dewy to the kiss, and furnished with a row of tiny milk-white teeth. Over and above all this she was, they said, full of inestimable qualities.

No sooner was her identity recognized than a whisper ran through the ladies in which the words “prostitute” and “public scandal,” were so conspicuously distinct that she raised her head and retaliated by sweeping her companions with such a bold and defiant look that deep silence instantly fell upon them, and they all cast down their eyes with the exception of Loiseau, who watched her with a kindling eye.

However, conversation was soon resumed between the three ladies, whom the presence of this “person” had suddenly rendered friendly⁠—almost intimate. It seemed to them that they must, as it were, raise a rampart of their dignity as spouses between them and this shameless creature who made a traffic of herself; for legalized love always takes a high hand with her unlicensed sister.

The three men too, drawn to one another by a conservative instinct at sight of Cornudet, talked money in a certain tone of contempt for the impecunious. Count Hubert spoke of the damage inflicted on him by the Prussians, of the losses which would result to him from the seizing of cattle and from ruined crops, but with all the assurance of a great landed proprietor, ten times millionaire, whom these ravages might inconvenience for the space of a year at most. Monsieur Carré-Lamadon, of great experience in the cotton industry, had taken the precaution to send six hundred thousand francs across to England as provision against a rainy day. As for Loiseau, he made arrangements to sell all the common wines in his cellars to the French commission of supplies, consequently the Government owed him a formidable sum, which he counted upon receiving at Havre.

The three exchanged rapid and amicable glances. Although differing in position they felt themselves brothers in money, and of the great freemasonry of those who possess, of those who can make the gold jingle when they put their hands in the breeches-pockets.

The diligence went so slowly that by ten o’clock in the morning they had not made four leagues. The men got out three times and climbed the hill on foot. They began to grow anxious, for they were to have lunched at Totes, and now they despaired of reaching that place before night. Everybody was on the lookout for some inn by the way, when the vehicle stuck fast in a snowdrift, and it took two hours to get it out.

Meanwhile the pangs of hunger began to affect them severely both in mind and body, and yet not an inn, not a tavern even, was to be seen; the approach of the Prussians and the passage of the famished French troops had frightened away all trade.

The gentlemen foraged diligently for the provisions in the farms by the roadside; but they failed to obtain so much as a piece of bread, for the mistrustful peasant hid all reserve stores for fear of being pillaged by the soldiers, who, having no food supplied to them, took by force everything they could lay their hands on.

Towards one o’clock Loiseau announced that he felt a very decided void in his stomach. Everybody had been suffering in the same manner for a long time, and the violent longing for food had extinguished conversation.

From time to time someone would yawn, to be almost immediately imitated by another and then each of the rest in turn, and according to their disposition, manners, or social standing, would open their mouth noisily, or modestly cover with the hand the gaping cavity from which the breath issued in a vapour.

Boule de Suif had several times stooped down as if feeling for something under her skirts. She hesitated a moment, looked at her companions, and then composedly resumed her former position. The faces were pale and drawn. Loiseau declared he would give a thousand francs for a ham. His wife made a faint movement as to protest, but restrained herself. It always affected her painfully to hear of money being thrown away, nor could she even understand a joke upon the subject.

“To tell the truth,” said the Count, “I do not feel quite myself either⁠—how could I have omitted to think of bringing provisions?” And everybody reproached themselves with the same neglectfulness.

Cornudet, however, had a flask of rum which he offered round. It was coldly refused. Loiseau alone accepted a mouthful, and handed back the flask with thanks saying, “That’s good! that warms you up and keeps the hunger off a bit.” The alcohol raised his spirits somewhat, and he proposed that they should do the same as on the little ship in the song⁠—eat the fattest of the passengers. This indirect but obvious allusion to Boule de Suif shocked the gentle people. Nobody responded and only Cornudet smiled. The two Sisters of Mercy had ceased to tell their beads and sat motionless, their hands buried in their wide sleeves, their eyes obstinately lowered, doubtless engaged in offering back to Heaven the sacrifice of suffering which it sent them.

At last, at three o’clock, when they were in the middle of an interminable stretch of bare country without a single village in sight, Boule de Suif, stooping hurriedly, drew from under the seat a large basket covered with a white napkin.

Out of it she took, first of all, a little china plate and a delicate silver drinking-cup, and then an immense dish, in which two whole fowls ready carved lay stiffened in their jelly. Other good things were visible in the basket: patties, fruits, pastry⁠—in fact provisions for a three days’ journey in order to be independent of inn cookery. The necks of four bottles protruded from between the parcels of food. She took the wing of a fowl and began to eat it daintily with one of those little rolls which they call “Regence” in Normandy.

Every eye was fixed upon her. As the odour of the food spread through the carriage nostrils began to quiver and mouths to fill with water, while the jaws, just below the ears, contracted painfully. The dislike entertained by the ladies for this abandoned young woman grew savage, almost to the point of longing to murder her or at least to turn her out into the snow, her and her drinking-cup and her basket and her provisions.

Loiseau, however, was devouring the dish of chicken with his eyes. “Madame has been more prudent than we,” he said. “Some people always think of everything.”

She turned her head in his direction. “If you would care for any, Monsieur⁠—? It is not comfortable to fast for so long.”

He bowed. “By Jove!⁠—frankly, I won’t refuse. I can’t stand this any longer⁠—the fortune of war, is it not, madame?” And with a comprehensive look he added: “In moments such as this we are only too glad to find anyone who will oblige us.” He had a newspaper which he spread on his knee to save his trousers, and with the point of a knife which he always carried in his pocket he captured a drumstick all glazed with jelly, tore it with his teeth, and then proceeded to chew it with satisfaction so evident that a deep groan of distress went up from the whole party.

Upon this Boule de Suif in a gentle and humble tone invited the two Sisters to share the collation. They both accepted on the spot, and without raising their eyes began to eat very hurriedly, after stammering a few words of thanks. Nor did Cornudet refuse his neighbour’s offer, and with the Sisters they formed a kind of table by spreading out newspapers on their knees.

The jaws opened and shut without a pause, biting, chewing, gulping ferociously. Loiseau, hard at work in his corner, urged his wife in a low voice to follow his example. She resisted for some time, then, after a pang which gripped her very vitals, she gave in. Whereupon her husband, rounding off his phrases, asked if their “charming fellow-traveller” would permit him to offer a little something to Madame Loiseau.

“Why, yes, certainly, Monsieur,” she answered with a pleasant smile, and handed him the dish.

There was a moment of embarrassment when the first bottle of claret was uncorked⁠—there was but the one drinking-cup. Each one wiped it before passing it to the rest. Cornudet alone, from an impulse of gallantry no doubt, placed his lips on the spot still wet from the lips of his neighbour.

Then it was that, surrounded by people who were eating, suffocated by the fragrant odour of the viands, the Count and Countess de Bréville and Monsieur and Madame Carré-Lamadon suffered the agonies of that torture which has ever been associated with the name of Tantalus. Suddenly the young wife of the cotton manufacturer gave a deep sigh. Every head turned towards her; she was as white as the snow outside, her eyes closed, her head fell forward⁠—she had fainted. Her husband, distraught with fear, implored assistance of the whole company. All lost their heads till the elder of the two Sisters, who supported the unconscious lady, forced Boule de Suif’s drinking-cup between her lips and made her swallow a few drops of wine. The pretty creature stirred, opened her eyes, smiled and then declared in an expiring voice that she felt quite well now. But to prevent her being overcome again in the same manner, the Sister induced her to drink a full cup of wine, adding, “It is simply hunger⁠—nothing else.”

At this Boule de Suif, blushing violently, looked at the four starving passengers and faltered shyly, “Mon Dieu! If I might make so bold as to offer the ladies and gentlemen⁠—” She stopped short, fearing a rude rebuff.

Loiseau, however, at once threw himself into the breach. “Parbleu! under such circumstances we are all companions in misfortune and bound to help each other. Come, ladies, don’t stand on ceremony⁠—take what you can get and be thankful: who knows whether we shall be able to find so much as a house where we can spend the night? At this rate we shall not reach Tôtes till tomorrow afternoon.”

They still hesitated, nobody having the courage to take upon themselves the responsibility of the decisive “Yes.” Finally the Count seized the bull by the horns. Adopting his most grandiose air, he turned with a bow to the embarrassed young woman and said, “We accept your offer with thanks, madame.”

The first step only was difficult. The Rubicon once crossed, they fell to with a will. They emptied the basket, which contained, besides the provisions already mentioned: a pâté de foie gras, a lark pie, a piece of smoked tongue, some pears, a slab of gingerbread, mixed biscuits, and a cup of pickled onions and gherkins in vinegar⁠—for, like all women, Boule de Suif adored pickles.

They could not well eat the young woman’s provisions and not speak to her, so they conversed⁠—stiffly at first, and then, seeing that she showed no signs of presuming, with less reserve. Mesdames de Bréville and Carré-Lamadon, having a great deal of savoir vivre, knew how to make themselves agreeable with tact and delicacy. The Countess, in particular, exhibited the amiable condescension of the extremely highborn lady whom no contact can sully, and was charming. But big Madame Loiseau, who had the soul of a gendarme, remained unmoved, speaking little and eating much.

The conversation naturally turned upon the war. They related horrible deeds committed by the Prussians and examples of the bravery of the French; all these people who were flying rendering full homage to the courage of those who remained behind. Incidents of personal experience soon followed, and Boule de Suif told, with that warmth of colouring which women of her type often employ in expressing their natural feelings, how she had come to leave Rouen.

“I thought at first I should be able to hold out,” she said, “for I had plenty of provisions in my house, and would much rather feed a few soldiers than turn out of my home and go goodness knows where. But when I saw them⁠—these Prussians⁠—it was too much for me. They made my blood boil with rage, and I cried the whole day for shame. Oh, if I had only been a man!⁠—well, there! I watched them from my window⁠—fat pigs that they were with their spiked helmets⁠—and my servant had to hold my hands to prevent me throwing the furniture down on the top of them. Then some of them came to be quartered on me, and I flew at the throat of the first one⁠—they are not harder to strangle than anyone else⁠—and would have finished him too if they had not dragged me off by the hair. Of course I had to lie low after that. So as soon as I found an opportunity I left⁠—and here I am.”

Everybody congratulated her. She rose considerably in the estimation of her companions, who had not shown themselves of such valiant mettle, and listening to her tale, Cornudet smiled the benignant and approving smile of an apostle⁠—as a priest might on hearing a devout person praise the Almighty; democrats with long beards having the monopoly of patriotism as the men of the cassock possess that of religion. He then took up the parable in a didactic tone with the phraseology culled from the notices posted each day on the walls, and finished up with a flourish of eloquence in which he scathingly alluded to “that blackguard Badinguet.”5

But Boule de Suif fired up at this for she was a Bonapartist. She turned upon him with scarlet cheeks and stammering with indignation, “Ah! I should just like to have seen any of you in his place! A nice mess you would have made of it! It is men of your sort that ruined him, poor man. There would be nothing for it but to leave France for good if we were governed by cowards like you!”

Cornudet, nothing daunted, preserved a disdainful and superior smile, but there was a feeling in the air that high words would soon follow, whereupon the Count interposed, and managed, not without difficulty, to quiet the infuriated young woman by asserting authoritatively that every sincere opinion was to be respected. Nevertheless the Countess and the manufacturer’s wife, who nourished in their hearts the unreasoning hatred of all well-bred people for the Republic and at the same time that instinctive weakness of all women for uniformed and despotic governments, felt drawn, in spite of themselves, to this woman of the street who had so much sense of the fitness of things and whose opinions so closely resembled their own.

The basket was empty⁠—this had not been difficult among ten of them⁠—they only regretted it was not larger. The conversation was kept up for some little time longer, although somewhat more coldly after they had finished eating.

The night fell, the darkness grew gradually more profound, and the cold, to which digestion rendered them more sensitive, made even Boule de Suif shiver in spite of her fat. Madame de Bréville thereupon offered her her charcoal foot-warmer, which had been replenished several times since the morning; she accepted with alacrity, for her feet were like ice. Mesdames Carré-Lamadon and Loiseau lent theirs to the two Sisters.

The driver had lit his lanterns, which shed a vivid light over the cloud of vapour that hung over the steaming backs of the horses and over the snow at each side of the road, which seemed to open out under the shifting reflection of the lights.

Inside the conveyance nothing could be distinguished any longer, but there was a sudden movement between Boule de Suif and Cornudet, and Loiseau, peering through the gloom, fancied he saw the man with the beard start back quickly as if he had received a well-directed but noiseless blow.

Tiny points of fire appeared upon the road in front. It was Tôtes. The travellers had been driving for eleven hours, which, with the four half-hours for food and rest to the horses, made thirteen. They entered the town and stopped in front of the Hôtel du Commerce.

The door opened. A familiar sound caused every passenger to tremble⁠—it was the clink of a scabbard on the stones. At the same moment a German voice called out something.

Although the diligence had stopped, nobody attempted to get out, as though they expected to be massacred on setting foot to the ground. The driver then appeared holding up one of the lanterns, which suddenly illumined the vehicle to its farthest corner and revealed the two rows of bewildered faces with their open mouths and startled eyes wide with alarm.

Beside the driver in the full glare of the light stood a German officer, a tall young man excessively slender and blonde, compressed into his uniform like a girl in her stays, and wearing, well over one ear, a flat black wax-cloth cap like the “Boots” of an English hotel. His preposterously long moustache, which was drawn out stiff and straight, and tapered away indefinitely to each side till it finished off in a single thread so thin that it was impossible to say where it ended, seemed to weigh upon the corners of his mouth and form a deep furrow in either cheek.

In Alsatian-French and stern accents he invited the passengers to descend: “Vill you get out, chentlemen and laties?”

The two Sisters were the first to obey with the docility of holy women accustomed to unfaltering submission. The Count and Countess appeared next, followed by the manufacturer and his wife, and after them Loiseau pushing his better half in front of him. As he set foot to the ground he remarked to the officer, more from motives of prudence than politeness, “Good evening, Monsieur,” to which the other with the insolence of the man in possession, vouchsafed no reply but a stare.

Boule de Suif and Cornudet, though the nearest the door, were the last to emerge⁠—grave and haughty in face of the enemy. The buxom young woman struggled hard to command herself and be calm; the democrat tugged at his long rusty beard with a tragic and slightly trembling hand. They sought to preserve their dignity, realizing that in such encounters each one, to a certain extent, represents his country; and the two being similarly disgusted at the servile readiness of their companions, she endeavored to show herself prouder than her fellow travellers who were honest women, while he, feeling that he must set an example, continued in his attitude his mission of resistance begun by digging pitfalls in the high roads.

They all entered the huge kitchen of the inn, and the German, having been presented with the passport signed by the general in command⁠—where each traveller’s name was accompanied by a personal description and a statement as to his or her profession⁠—he proceeded to scrutinize the party for a long time, comparing the persons with the written notices.

Finally, he exclaimed unceremoniously, “That’s all right,” and disappeared.

They breathed again more freely. Hunger having reasserted itself, supper was ordered. It would take half an hour to prepare, so while two servants were apparently busied about it the travellers dispersed to look at their rooms. These were all together down each side of a long passage ending in a door marked “Toilet.”

At last, just as they were sitting down to table, the innkeeper himself appeared. He was a former horse-dealer, a stout asthmatic man with perpetual wheezings and blowings and rattlings of phlegm in his throat. His father had transmitted to him the name of Follenvie.

“Mademoiselle Elizabeth Rousset?” he said.

Boule de Suif started and turned round. “That is my name.”

“Mademoiselle, the Prussian officer wants to speak to you at once.”

“To me?”

“Yes, if you really are Mademoiselle Elizabeth Rousset.”

She hesitated, thought for a moment, and then declared roundly: “That may be, but I’m not going.”

There was a movement round about her⁠—everybody was much exercised as to the reason of this summons. The Count came over to her.

“You may do wrong to refuse, madame, for it may entail considerable annoyance not only on yourself but on the rest of your companions. It is a fatal mistake ever to offer resistance to people who are stronger than ourselves. The step can have no possible danger for you⁠—it is probably about some little formality that has been omitted.”

One and all concurred with him, implored and urged and scolded, till they ended by convincing her; for they were all apprehensive of the results of her obstinacy.

“Well, it is only for your sakes that I am doing it!” she said at last. The Countess pressed her hand. “And we are most grateful to you.”

She left the room, and the others agreed to wait for her before beginning the meal. Each one lamented at not having been asked for instead of this hotheaded, violent young woman, and mentally prepared any number of platitudes for the event of being called in their turn.

At the end of ten minutes she returned, crimson with rage, choking, snorting⁠—“Oh, the blackguard; the low blackguard!” she stammered.

They all crowded round her to know what had happened, but she would not say, and the Count becoming insistent, she answered with much dignity, “No, it does not concern anybody! I can’t speak of it.”

They then seated themselves round a great soup tureen from which steamed a smell of cabbage. In spite of this little contretemps the supper was a gay one. The cider, of which the Loiseaus and the two nuns partook from motives of economy, was good. The rest ordered wine and Cornudet called for beer. He had a particular way of uncorking the bottle, of making the liquid froth, of gazing at it while he tilted the glass, which he then held up between his eye and the light to enjoy the color; while he drank, his great beard, which had the tints of his favourite beverage, seemed to quiver fondly, his eyes squinting that he might not lose sight of his tankard for a moment, and altogether he had the appearance of fulfilling the sole function for which he had been born. You would have said that he established in his own mind some connection or affinity between the two great passions that monopolized his life⁠—Ale and Revolution⁠—and most assuredly he never tasted the one without thinking of the other.

Monsieur and Madame Follenvie dined at the farther end of the table. The husband⁠—puffing and blowing like an exploded locomotive⁠—had too much cold on the chest to be able to speak and eat at the same time, but his wife never ceased talking. She described her every impression at the arrival of the Prussians and all they did and all they said, execrating them in the first place because they cost so much, and secondly because she had two sons in the army. She addressed herself chiefly to the Countess, as it flattered her to be able to say she had conversed with a lady of quality.

She presently lowered her voice and proceeded to recount some rather delicate matters, her husband breaking in from time to time with⁠—“You had much better hold your tongue, Madame Follenvie,”⁠—to which she paid not the slightest attention, but went on.

“Well, madame, as I was saying⁠—these men, they do nothing but eat potatoes and pork and pork and potatoes from morning till night. And as for their habits⁠—! Saving your presence, they make dirt everywhere. And you should see them exercising for hours and days together out there in the fields⁠—It’s forward march and backward march, and turn this way and turn that. If they even worked in the fields or mended the roads in their own country! But, no, madame, these soldiers are no good to anybody, and the poor people have to keep them and feed them simply that they may learn how to murder. I know I am only a poor ignorant old woman, but when I see these men wearing themselves out by tramping up and down from morning till night, I cannot help saying to myself, if there are some people who make a lot of useful discoveries, why should others give themselves so much trouble to do harm? After all, isn’t it an abomination to kill anybody, no matter whether they are Prussians, or English, or Poles, or French? If you revenge yourself on someone who has harmed you, that is wicked, for you are punished; but let them shoot down our sons as if they were game, and it is all right, and they give medals to the man who kills the most. No, no, I say, I shall never be able to see any rhyme or reason in that!”

“War is barbarous if one attacks an unoffending neighbour⁠—it is a sacred duty if one defends one’s country,” remarked Cornudet in a declamatory tone.

The old woman drooped her head. “Yes⁠—defending oneself, of course, that is quite another thing; but wouldn’t it be better to kill all these kings who do this for their pleasure?”

Cornudet’s eyes flashed. “Bravo, citizeness!” he cried.

Monsieur Carré-Lamadon was lost in thought. Although he was an ardent admirer of famous military men, the sound common sense of this peasant woman made him reflect upon the wealth which would necessarily accrue to the country if all these unemployed and consequently ruinous hands⁠—so much unproductive force⁠—were available for the great industrial works that would take centuries to complete.

Loiseau meanwhile had left his seat and gone over beside the innkeeper, to whom he began talking in a low voice. The fat man laughed, coughed, and spat, his unwieldy stomach shaking with mirth at his neighbour’s jokes, and he bought six hogsheads of claret from him for the spring when the Prussians would have cleared out.

Supper was scarcely over when, dropping with fatigue, everybody went off to bed.

Loiseau, however, who had noticed certain things, let his wife go to bed and proceeded to glue first his ear and then his eye to the keyhole, endeavouring to penetrate what he called “the mysteries of the corridor.”

After about an hour he heard a rustling, and hurrying to the keyhole, he perceived Boule de Suif looking ampler than ever in a dressing-gown of blue cashmere trimmed with white lace. She had a candle in her hand and was going towards the door at the end of the corridor. Then a door at one side opened cautiously, and when she returned after a few minutes, Cornudet in his shirtsleeves was following her. They were talking in a low voice and presently stood still; Boule de Suif apparently defending the entrance of her room with much energy. Unfortunately Loiseau was unable to hear what they said, but at last, as they raised their voices somewhat, he caught a word or two. Cornudet was insisting eagerly. “Look here,” he said, “you are really very ridiculous⁠—what difference can it make to you?”

And she with an offended air retorted, “No!⁠—let me tell you there are moments when that sort of thing won’t do; and besides⁠—here⁠—it would be a crying shame.”

He obviously did not understand. “Why?”

At this she grew angry. “Why?” and she raised her voice still more, “you don’t see why? and there are Prussians in the house⁠—in the next room for all you know!”

He made no reply. This display of patriotic prudery evidently aroused his failing dignity, for with a brief kiss he made for his own door on tiptoe.

Loiseau, deeply thrilled and amused, executed a double shuffle in the middle of the room, donned his nightcap, slipped into the blankets where the bony figure of his spouse already reposed, and waking her with a kiss he murmured: “Do you love me, darling?”

The whole house sank to silence. But anon there arose from somewhere⁠—it might have been the cellar, it might have been the attics⁠—impossible to determine the direction⁠—a rumbling⁠—sonorous, even, regular, dull, prolonged roar as of a boiler under high steam pressure: Monsieur Follenvie slept.

It had been decided that they should start at eight o’clock the next morning, so they were all assembled in the kitchen by that hour; but the diligence, roofed with snow, stood solitary in the middle of the courtyard without horses or driver. The latter was sought for in vain either in the stables or in the coachhouse. The men of the party then resolved to beat the country round for him, and went out accordingly. They found themselves in the public square with the church at one end, and low-roofed houses down each side in which they caught sight of Prussian soldiers. The first one they came upon was peeling potatoes; farther on another was washing out a barber’s shop; while a third, bearded to the eyes, was soothing a crying child and rocking it to and fro on his knee to quiet it. The big peasant women whose men were all “with the army in the war” were ordering about their docile conquerors and showing them by signs what work they wanted done⁠—chopping wood, grinding coffee, fetching water; one of them was even doing the washing for his hostess, a helpless old crone.

The Count, much astonished, stopped the beadle, who happened to come out of the priest’s house at that moment, and asked the meaning of it all.

“Oh,” replied the old church rat, “these are not at all bad. From what I hear they are not Prussians, either; they come from farther off, but where I can’t say; and they have all left a wife and children at home. I am very sure the women down there are crying for their men, too, and it will all make a nice lot of misery for them as well as for us. We are not so badly off here for the moment, because they do no harm and are working just as if they were in their own homes. You see, Monsieur, the poor always help one another; it is the bigwigs who make the wars.”

Cornudet, indignant at the friendly understanding established between the victors and the vanquished, retired from the scene, preferring to shut himself up in the inn. Loiseau of course must have his joke. “They are re-populating,” he said. Monsieur Carré-Lamadon found a more fitting expression. “They are making reparations.”

But the driver was nowhere to be found. At last he was unearthed in the village café hobnobbing fraternally with the officer’s orderly.

“Did you not have orders to have the diligence ready by eight o’clock?” the Count asked him.

“Oh, yes, but I got another order later on.”

“What?”

“Not to put the horses in at all.”

“Who gave you that order?”

“Why⁠—the Prussian commandant.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know⁠—you had better ask him. I am told not to harness the horses, and so I don’t harness them⁠—there you are.”

“Did he tell you so himself?”

“No, Monsieur, the innkeeper brought me the message from him.”

“When was that?”

“Last night, just as I was going to bed.”

The three men returned much disconcerted. They asked for Monsieur Follenvie, but were informed by the servant that on account of his asthma he never got up before ten o’clock⁠—he had even positively forbidden them to awaken him before then except in case of fire.

Then they asked to see the officer, but that was absolutely impossible, although he lodged at the inn.

Monsieur Follenvie alone was authorized to approach him on nonmilitary matters. So they had to wait. The women returned to their rooms and occupied themselves as best they could.

Cornudet installed himself in the high chimney-corner of the kitchen, where a great fire was burning. He had one of the little coffee-room tables brought to him and a can of beer, and puffed away placidly at his pipe, which enjoyed among the democrats almost equal consideration with himself, as if in serving Cornudet it served the country also. The pipe was a superb meerschaum, admirably coloured, black as the teeth of its owner, but fragrant, curved, shining familiar to his hand, and the natural complement to his physiognomy. He sat there motionless, his eyes fixed alternately on the flame of the hearth and the foam on the top of his tankard, and each time after drinking he passed his bony fingers with a self-satisfied gesture through his long greasy hair, while he absorbed the fringe of froth from his moustache.

Under the pretext of stretching his legs, Loiseau went out and palmed off his wines on the country retail dealers. The Count and the manufacturer talked politics. They forecast the future of France, the one putting his faith in the Orléans, the other in an unknown saviour, a hero who would come to the fore when things were at their very worst⁠—a Du Guesclin, a Joan of Arc perhaps, or even another Napoleon I. Ah, if only the Prince Imperial were not so young! Cornudet listened to them with the smile of a man who could solve the riddle of Fate if he would. His pipe perfumed the whole kitchen with its balmy fragrance.

On the stroke of ten Monsieur Follenvie made his appearance. They instantly attacked him with questions, but he had but one answer which he repeated two or three times without variation. “The officer said to me, ‘Monsieur Follenvie, you will forbid them to harness the horses for these travellers tomorrow morning. They are not to leave till I give my permission. You understand?’ That is all.”

They demanded to see the officer; the Count sent up his card, on which Monsieur Carré-Lamadon added his name and all his titles. The Prussian sent word that he would admit the two men to his presence after he had lunched, that is to say, about one o’clock.

The ladies came down and they all managed to eat a little in spite of their anxiety. Boule de Suif looked quite ill and very much agitated.

They were just finishing coffee when the orderly arrived to fetch the two gentlemen.

Loiseau joined them, but when they proposed to bring Cornudet along to give more solemnity to their proceedings, he declared haughtily that nothing would induce him to enter into any communication whatsoever with the Germans, and he returned to his chimney-corner and ordered another bottle of beer.

The three men went upstairs, and were shown into the best room in the inn, where they were received by the officer lolling in an armchair, his heels on the chimneypiece, smoking a long porcelain pipe, and arrayed in a flamboyant dressing-gown, taken, no doubt, from the abandoned dwelling-house of some bourgeois of inferior taste. He did not rise, he vouchsafed them no greeting of any description, he did not even look at them⁠—a brilliant sample of the victorious military cad.

At last after some moments, waiting he said: “Vat do you vant?”

The Count acted as spokesman.

“We wish to leave, Monsieur.”

“No.”

“May I take the liberty of asking the reason for this refusal?”

“Pecause I do not shoose.”

“With all due respect, Monsieur, I would draw your attention to the fact that your general gave us a permit for Dieppe, and I cannot see that we have done anything to justify your hard measures.”

“I do not shoose⁠—dat’s all⁠—you can co town.”

They all bowed and withdrew.

The afternoon was miserable. They could make nothing of this caprice of the German’s, and the most farfetched ideas tortured their minds. The whole party remained in the kitchen engaging in endless discussions, imagining the most improbable things. Were they to be kept as hostages?⁠—but if so, to what end?⁠—or taken prisoners⁠—or asked a large ransom? This last suggestion threw them into a cold perspiration of fear. The wealthiest were seized with the worst panic and saw themselves forced, if they valued their lives, to empty bags of gold into the rapacious hands of this soldier. They racked their brains for plausible lies to dissemble their riches, to pass themselves off as poor⁠—very poor. Loiseau pulled off his watch-chain and hid it in his pocket. As night fell their apprehensions increased. The lamp was lighted, and as there were still two hours till supper Madame Loiseau proposed a game of thirty-one. It would be some little distraction, at any rate. The plan was accepted; even Cornudet, who had put out his pipe from motives of politeness, taking a hand.

The Count shuffled the cards, dealt, Boule de Suif had thirty-one at the first deal; and very soon the interest in the game allayed the fears that beset their minds. Cornudet, however, observed that the two Loiseaus were in league to cheat.

Just as they were sitting down to the evening meal Monsieur appeared and said in his husky voice: “The Prussian officer wishes to know if Mademoiselle Elizabeth Rousset has not changed her mind yet?”

Boule de Suif remained standing and turned very pale, then suddenly her face flamed and she fell into such a paroxysm of rage that she could not speak. At last she burst out: “You can tell that scoundrel⁠—that low scum of a Prussian⁠—that I won’t⁠—and I never will⁠—do you hear?⁠—never! never! never!”

The fat innkeeper retired. They instantly surrounded Boule de Suif, questioning, entreating her to disclose the mystery of her visit. At first she refused, but presently she was carried away by her indignation: “What does he want?⁠—what does he want?⁠—he wants me to make love to him!” she shouted.

The general indignation was so violent that nobody was shocked. Cornudet brought his beer glass down on the table with such a bang that it broke. There was a perfect babel of invective against the drunken lout, a hurricane of wrath, a union of all for resistance, as if each had been required to contribute a portion of the sacrifice demanded of her. The Count protested with disgust that these people behaved really as if they were early barbarians. The women, in particular, accorded her the most lively and affectionate sympathy. The nuns, who only appeared at meals, dropped their eyes and said nothing.

The first fury of the storm having abated, they sat down to supper, but there was little conversation and a good deal of thoughtful abstraction.

The ladies retired early; the men, while they smoked, got up a game of écarté, which Monsieur Follenvie was invited to join, as they intended pumping him skilfully as to the means that could be employed for overcoming the officer’s opposition to their departure. Unfortunately, he would absorb himself wholly in his cards, and neither listened to what they said nor gave any answer to their questions, but repeated incessantly, “Play, gentlemen, play!” His attention was so deeply engaged that he forgot to spit, which caused his chest to wheeze from time to time; his wheezing lungs running through the whole gamut of asthma from notes of the profoundest bass to the shrill, hoarse crow of the young cock.

He refused to go to bed when his wife, who was dropping with sleep, came to fetch him. She therefore departed alone, for on her devolved the “day duty,” and she always rose with the sun, while her husband took the “night duty,” and was always ready to sit up all night with friends. He merely called out, “Mind you put my egg flip in front of the fire!” and returned to his cards. When they were convinced that there was nothing to be got out of him, they declared that it was high time to go to bed, and left him.

They were up again pretty early the next day, filled with an indefinite hope, a still keener desire to be gone, and a horror of another day to be got through in this horrible little inn.

Alas! the horses were still in the stable and the coachman remained invisible. For lack of something better to do, they sadly wandered round the diligence.

Lunch was very depressing, and a certain chilliness had sprung up with regard to Boule de Suif, for the night⁠—which brings counsel⁠—had somewhat modified their opinions. They were almost vexed with the girl now for not having gone to the Prussian secretly, and thus prepared a pleasant surprise for her companions in the morning. What could be simpler, and, after all, who could have been any the wiser? She might have saved appearances by telling the officer that she could not bear to see their distress any longer. It could make so very little difference to her one way or another!

But, as yet, nobody confessed to these thoughts. In the afternoon, as they were feeling bored to extinction, the Count proposed a walk round the village. Everybody wrapped up carefully and the little party started, with the exception of Cornudet, who preferred sitting by the fire, and the two Sisters, who passed their days in the church or with the curé.

The cold⁠—grown more intense each day⁠—nipped their noses and ears viciously, and the feet became so painful that every step was anguish; but when they caught sight of the open stretch of country it appeared to them so appallingly lugubrious under its illimitable white covering that they turned back with one accord, their hearts constricted, their spirits below zero. The four ladies walked in front, the three men following a little behind.

Loiseau, who thoroughly took in the situation, suddenly broke out, “How long was this damned wench going to keep them hanging on in this hole?” The Count, courteous as ever, observed that one could not demand so painful a sacrifice of any woman⁠—the offer must come from her. Monsieur Carré-Lamadon remarked that if⁠—as there was every reason to believe⁠—the French made an offensive countermarch by way of Dieppe, the collision could only take place at Tôtes. This reflection greatly alarmed the other two. “Why not escape on foot?” suggested Loiseau. The Count shrugged his shoulders. “How can you think of such a thing in this snow⁠—and with our wives? Besides which, we should instantly be pursued, caught in ten minutes, and brought back prisoners at the mercy of these soldiers.” This was incontestable⁠—there was nothing more to be said.

The ladies talked dress, but a certain constraint seemed to have risen up between them.

All at once, at the end of the street, the officer came in sight, his tall figure, like a wasp in uniform, silhouetted against the dazzling background of snow, and walking with his knees well apart, with that movement peculiar to the military when endeavouring to save their carefully polished boots from the mud.

In passing the ladies he bowed, but only stared contemptuously at the men, who, be it said, had the dignity not to lift their hats, though Loiseau made a faint gesture in that direction.

Boule de Suif blushed up to her eyes, and the three married women felt it a deep humiliation to have encountered this soldier while they were in the company of the young woman he had treated so cavalierly.

The conversation then turned upon him, his general appearance, his face. Madame Carré-Lamadon, who had known a great many officers and was competent to judge of them as a connoisseur, considered this one really not half bad⁠—she even regretted that he was not French, he would have made such a fascinating hussar, and would certainly have been much run after.

Once indoors again, they did not know what to do with themselves. Sharp words were exchanged on the most insignificant pretexts. The silent dinner did not last long, and they shortly afterwards went to bed, hoping to kill time by sleeping.

They came down next morning with jaded faces and exasperation in their hearts. The women scarcely addressed a word to Boule de Suif.

Presently the church bell began to ring; it was for a christening. Boule de Suif had a child out at nurse with some peasants near Yvetot. She did not see it once in a year and never gave it a thought, but the idea of this baby which was going to be baptized filled her heart with sudden and violent tenderness for her own, and nothing would satisfy her but that she should assist at the ceremony.

No sooner was she gone than they all looked at one another and proceeded to draw up their chairs; for everybody felt that things had come to that point that something must be decided upon. Loiseau had an inspiration: that they should propose to the officer to keep Boule de Suif and let the rest go.

Monsieur Follenvie undertook the mission, but returned almost immediately. The German, who had some knowledge of human nature, had simply turned him out of the room. He meant to retain the whole party so long as his desire was unsatisfied.

At this Madame Loiseau’s plebeian tendencies got the better of her. “But surely we are not going to sit down calmly here and die of old age! As that is this harlot’s trade, I don’t see that she has any right to refuse one man more than another. Why, she took anybody she could get in Rouen, down to the very cab drivers. Yes, Madame, the coachman of the Prefecture. I know all about it. He buys his wine at our shop. And now, when it lies with her to get us out of this scrape, she pretends to be particular⁠—the brazen hussy! For my part, I consider the officer has behaved very well! He has probably not had a chance for some time, and there were three here whom, no doubt, he would have preferred; but no⁠—he is content to take the one who is public property. He respects married women. Remember, he is master here. He had only to say ‘I will,’ and he could have taken us by force with his soldiers!”

A little shudder ran through the other two women. Pretty little Madame Carré-Lamadon’s eyes shone and she turned rather pale as though she already felt herself forcibly seized by the officer.

The men, who had been arguing the matter in a corner, now joined them. Loiseau, foaming with rage, was for delivering up “the hussy” bound hand and foot to the enemy. But the Count, coming of three generations of ambassadors, and gifted with the physique of the diplomatist, was on the side of skill as opposed to brute force.

“She must be persuaded,” he said. Whereupon they conspired.

The women drew up closer together, voices were lowered, and the discussion became general, each one offering his or her advice. Nothing was said to shock the proprieties. The ladies, in particular, were most expert in felicitous turns of phrase, charming subtleties of speech for expressing the most ticklish things. A foreigner would have understood nothing, the language was so carefully veiled. But as the slight coating of modesty with which every woman of the world is enveloped is hardly more than skin deep, they expanded under the influence of this equivocal adventure, enjoying themselves tremendously at bottom, thoroughly in their element, dabbling in sensuality with the gusto of an epicurean cook preparing a toothsome delicacy for somebody else.

The story finally appeared to them so funny that they quite recovered their spirits. The Count indulged in some rather risky pleasantries, but so well put that they raised a responsive smile; Loiseau, in his turn, rapped out some decidedly strong jokes which nobody took in bad part, and the brutal proposition expressed by his wife swayed all their minds: “As that is her trade, why refuse one man more than another?” Little Madame Carré-Lamadon seemed even to think that in her place she would refuse this one less readily than another.

They were long in preparing the blockade, as if against an invested fortress. Each one agreed upon the part they would play, the arguments they would bring forward, the manoeuvres they would execute. They arranged the plan of attack, the stratagems to be employed, and the surprises of the assault for forcing this living citadel to receive the enemy within its gates. Cornudet alone held aloof, completely outside the affair.

They were so profoundly occupied with the matter in hand that they never heard Boule de Suif enter the room. But the Count breathed a low warning “Hush!” and they lifted their heads. She was there. The talking ceased abruptly, and a certain feeling of embarrassment prevented them from addressing her at first, till the Countess, more versed than the others in the duplicities of the drawing room, asked how she had enjoyed the christening.

Still full of emotion at what she had witnessed, Boule de Suif described every detail⁠—the peoples’ faces, their attitudes, even the appearance of the church. It was so nice to pray now and then, she added.

Till luncheon, however, the ladies confined themselves merely to being agreeable to her in order to increase her confidence in them and her docility to their counsels. But once seated at the table, the attack began. It first took the form of a desultory conversation on devotion to a cause. Examples from ancient history were cited: Judith and Holofernes, and then, without any apparent connection, Lucretia and Sextus, Cleopatra admitting to her couch all the hostile generals, and reducing them to the servility of slaves. Then began a fantastic history, which had sprung up in the minds of the ignorant millionaires, in which the women of Rome were seen on their way to Capua, to rock Hannibal to sleep in their arms, and his officers along with him, and the phalanxes of the mercenaries. The women were mentioned who had arrested the course of conquerors, made of their bodies a rampart, a means of dominating, a weapon; who had vanquished by their heroic embraces beings hideous or repulsive, and sacrificed their chastity to vengeance or patriotism. They even talked in veiled terms of an Englishwoman of good family who had herself inoculated with a horrible contagious disease, in order to give it to Napoleon, who was saved miraculously by a sudden indisposition at the hour of the fatal meeting.

And all this in so discreet and moderate a manner, with now and then a little burst of warm enthusiasm, admirably calculated to excite emulation. To hear them you would have finally come to the conclusion that woman’s sole mission here below was to perpetually sacrifice her person, to abandon herself continually to the caprices of the warrior.

The two Sisters appeared to be deaf to it all, sunk in profound thought. Boule de Suif said nothing.

They allowed her all the afternoon for reflection, but instead of calling her “Madame,” as they had done up till now, they addressed her simply as “Mademoiselle”⁠—nobody could have said exactly why⁠—as if to send her down a step in the esteem she had gained, and force her to feel the shame of her position.

In the evening just as the soup was being brought to the table Monsieur Follenvie made his appearance again with the same message as before: “The Prussian officer sends to ask Mademoiselle Elizabeth Rousset if she had not changed her mind.”

“No, Monsieur,” Boule de Suif replied curtly.

At supper the coalition weakened. Loiseau put his foot in it three times. They all racked their brains for fresh instances to the point, and found none, when the Countess, possibly without premeditation and only from a vague desire to render homage to religion, interrogated the older of the two Sisters on the main incidents in the lives of the saints. Now, several of them had committed acts which would be counted crimes in our eyes, but the Church readily pardons such misdeeds when they are accomplished for the glory of God or the benefit of our neighbours. It was a powerful argument, and the Countess took advantage of it. Then by one of those tacit agreements, those veiled complaisances in which everyone who wears ecclesiastical habit excels, or perhaps simply from a happy want of intelligence, a helpful stupidity, the old nun brought formidable support to the conspiracy. They had imagined her timid; she proved herself bold, verbose, violent. She was not troubled by any of the shilly-shallyings of casuistry, her doctrine was like a bar of iron, her faith never wavered, her conscience knew no scruples. She considered Abraham’s sacrifice a very simple affair, for she herself would have instantly killed father or mother at an order from above, and nothing, she averred, could displease the Lord if the intention were commendable. The Countess, taking advantage of the sacred authority of her unexpected ally, drew her on to make an edifying paraphrase, as it were, on the well-known moral maxim: “The end justifies the means.

“Then, Sister,” she inquired, “you think God approves of every pathway that leads to Him, and pardons the deed if the motive be a pure one?”

“Who can doubt it, Madame? An action blamable in itself is often rendered meritorious by the impulse which inspires it.”

And she continued in the same strain, unravelling the intricacies of the will of the Almighty, predicting His decisions, making Him interest Himself in matters which, of a truth, did not concern Him at all.

All this was skillfully and discreetly wrapped up, but each word of the pious woman in the big white cap made a breach in the indignant resistance of the courtesan. The conversation then glancing off slightly, the woman of the pendent rosaries went on to speak of the religious houses of her Order, of her superior, of herself and her fragile little companion, her dear little Sister St. Nicephora. They had been summoned to Havre to nurse the hundreds of soldiers there down with smallpox. She described the condition of these poor wretches, gave details of their disease; and while they were thus stopped upon the road by the whim of this Prussian, many French soldiers might die whom perhaps they could have saved. That was her specialty⁠—nursing soldiers. She had been in the Crimea, in Italy, in Austria; and relating her campaigns, she suddenly revealed herself as one of those Sisters of the fife and drum who seem made for following the camp, picking up the wounded in the thick of battle, and better than any officer for quelling with a word the great hulking undisciplined louts⁠—a regular Sister Rataplan, her ravaged face all pitted with innumerable holes, calling up an image of the devastations of war.

No one spoke after her for fear of spoiling the excellent effect.

Immediately after dinner they hurried to their rooms, not to reappear till pretty late the next morning.

Luncheon passed off quietly. They allowed the seed sown yesterday time to grow and bear fruit.

In the afternoon the Countess proposed a walk, whereupon the Count, following the preconcerted arrangement, took Boule de Suif’s arm and fell behind with her a little. He adopted that familiar, paternal, somewhat contemptuous tone which elderly men affect towards such girls, calling her “my dear child,” treating her from the height of his social position and indisputable respectability.

He came to the point without further preamble. “So you prefer to keep us here exposed like yourself to all the violence which must inevitably follow a check to the Prussian arms, rather than consent to accord one of those favours you have so often dispensed in your time?”

Boule de Suif did not reply.

He then appealed to her kindness of heart, her reason, her sentiment. He knew how to remain “Monsieur le Comte,” yet showing himself at the same time chivalrous, flattering⁠—in a word, altogether amiable. He exalted the sacrifice she would be making for them, touched upon their gratitude, and with a final flash of roguishness, “Besides, my dear, he may think himself lucky⁠—he will not find many such pretty girls as you in his own country!”

Boule de Suif said nothing and rejoined the rest of the party.

When they returned, she went straight to her room and did not come down again. The anxiety was terrible. What was she going to do? How unspeakably mortifying if she still persisted in her refusal!

The dinner-hour arrived, they waited for her in vain. Monsieur Follenvie, entering presently, announced that Mademoiselle Rousset was indisposed, and that there was consequently no need to delay supper any longer. They all pricked up their ears. The Count approached the innkeeper with a whispered “All right?”

“Yes.”

For propriety’s sake he said nothing to his companions, but he made them a slight sign of the head. A great sigh of relief went up from every heart, every face lit up with joy.

“Saperlipopette!” cried Loiseau, “I will stand champagne if there is such a thing in this establishment!”

Madame Loiseau suffered a pang of anguish when the innkeeper returned with four bottles in his hands. Everybody suddenly turned communicative and cheerful, and their hearts overflowed with prurient delight. The Count seemed all at once to become aware that Madame Carré-Lamadon was charming; the manufacturer paid compliments to the Countess. Conversation became lively, sprightly, and full of sparkle.

Suddenly Loiseau, with an anxious expression, raised his arms and shouted: “Silence!” They all stopped talking, surprised and already terrified. Then he listened intently, motioning to them to be silent with his two hands, and raising his eyes to the ceiling. He listened again, and resumed in his natural voice: “It is all right. Don’t worry.”

They did not understand at first, but soon a smile spread over their faces.

A quarter of an hour later he began the same comedy, and repeated it frequently during the evening. He pretended to be questioning someone on the floor above, giving advice in double-meaning phrases which he drew from his repertory as a commercial traveller. At times he would assume an air of sadness, and sigh: “Poor girl”; or he would mutter between his teeth with a furious air: “You swine of a Prussian!”⁠—Sometimes, when least expected, he would shout in resonant tones: “Enough! Enough!” adding, as though speaking to himself, “if only we see her again; if the scoundrel does not kill her!”

Although these jokes were in deplorable taste, they amused everyone and hurt nobody, for, like everything else, indignation is qualified by circumstances, and the atmosphere about them had gradually become charged with obscene thoughts.

By the time they reached dessert the women themselves were indulging in decidedly risky witticisms. Eyes grew bright, tongues were loosened, a good deal of wine had been consumed. The Count, who, even in his cups, retained his characteristic air of diplomatic gravity, made some highly spiced comparisons on the subject of the end of the winter season at the Pole and the joy of icebound mariners at sight of an opening to the south.

Loiseau, now in full swing, rose, and lifting high his glass of champagne, “To our deliverance!” he cried. Everybody started to their feet with acclamation. Even the two Sisters of Mercy, yielding to the solicitations of the ladies, consented to take a sip of the effervescing wine which they had never tasted before. They pronounced it to be very like lemonade, though the taste was finer.

“What a pity there is no piano,” said Loiseau as a crowning point to the situation, “we might have finished up with a quadrille.”

Cornudet had not uttered a word, nor made a sign of joining in the general hilarity; he was apparently plunged in the gravest abstractions, only pulling viciously at his great beard from time to time as if to draw it out longer than before. At last, about midnight, when the company was preparing to separate, Loiseau came stumbling over to him, and digging him in the ribs: “You seem rather down in the mouth this evening, citizen⁠—haven’t said a word.”

Cornudet threw up his head angrily, and sweeping the company with a flashing and terrible look: “I tell you all that what you have done today is infamous!”

He rose, made his way to the door, exclaimed once again, “Infamous!” and vanished.

This somewhat dashed their spirits for the moment. Loiseau, nonplussed at first, soon regained his aplomb and burst into a roar of laughter. “Sour grapes, old man⁠—sour grapes!”

The others not understanding the allusion, he proceeded to relate the “mysteries of the corridor.” This was followed by an uproarious revival of gaiety. The ladies were in a frenzy of delight, the Count and Monsieur Carré-Lamadon laughed till they cried. They could not believe it.

“Do you mean to say he wanted⁠—”

“I tell you I saw it with my own eyes.”

“And she refused?”

“Because the Prussian was in the next room.”

“It is incredible.”

“As true as I stand here!”

The Count nearly choked; the manufacturer held both his sides.

“And you can understand that he does not quite see the joke of the thing this evening⁠—oh, no⁠—not at all!”

And they all three went off again, breathless, choking, sick with laughter.

After that they parted for the night. But Madame Loiseau remarked to her husband when they were alone that that little cat of a Carré-Lamadon had laughed on the wrong side of her mouth all the evening. “You know how it is with these women⁠—they dote upon a uniform, and whether it is French or Prussian matters precious little to them. But, Lord⁠—it seems to me a poor way of looking at things.”

All night the darkness of the corridor seemed full of thrills, of slight noises, scarcely audible, the pattering of bare feet, and creaking that was almost imperceptible. Certainly nobody got to sleep until very late, for it was long before the lights ceased to shine under the doors. Champagne, they say, often has that disturbing effect; it makes one restless and wakeful.

Next morning a brilliant winter sun shone on the dazzling snow. The diligence was by this time ready and waiting before the door, while a flock of white pigeons, muffled in their thick plumage, strutted solemnly in and out among the feet of the six horses, seeking what they might devour.

The driver, enveloped in his sheepskin, sat on the box smoking his pipe, and the radiant travellers were busily laying in provisions for the rest of the journey.

They were only waiting now for Boule de Suif. She appeared.

She looked agitated and downcast as she advanced timidly towards her fellow travellers, who all, with one movement, turned away their heads as if they had not seen her. The Count, with a dignified movement, took his wife by the arm and drew her away from this contaminating contact.

The poor thing stopped short, bewildered; then gathering up her courage she accosted the wife of the manufacturer with a humble “Good morning, Madame.” The other merely replied with an impertinent little nod, accompanied by a stare of outraged virtue. Everybody seemed suddenly extremely busy, and they avoided her as if she had brought the plague in her skirts. They then precipitated themselves into the vehicle, where she arrived the last and by herself, and resumed in silence the seat she had occupied during the first part of the journey.

They affected not to see her, not to recognize her; only Madame Loiseau, glancing round at her with scorn and indignation, said half audibly to her husband, “It’s a good thing that I am not sitting beside her!”

The heavy conveyance jolted off, and the journey recommenced.

No one spoke for the first little while. Boule de Suif did not venture to raise her eyes. She felt incensed at her companions, and at the same time deeply humiliated at having yielded to their persuasions, and let herself be sullied by the kisses of this Prussian into whose arms they had hypocritically thrust her.

The Countess was the first to break the uncomfortable silence. Turning to Madame Carré-Lamadon, she said, “You know Madame d’Etrelles, I think?”

“Oh, yes; she is a great friend of mine.”

“What a charming woman!”

“Fascinating! So truly refined; very cultivated, too, and an artist to the tips of her fingers⁠—she sings delightfully, and draws to perfection.”

The manufacturer was talking to the Count, and through the rattle of the crazy windowpanes one caught a word here and there; shares⁠—dividends⁠—premium⁠—settling day⁠—and the like. Loiseau, who had appropriated an old pack of cards from the inn, thick with the grease of the five years’ rubbing on dirty tables, started a game of bezique with his wife. The two Sisters pulled up the long rosaries hanging at their waists, made the sign of the cross, and suddenly began moving their lips rapidly, faster and faster, hurrying their vague babble as if for a wager; kissing a medal from time to time, crossing themselves again, and then resuming their rapid and monotonous murmur.

Cornudet sat motionless⁠—thinking.

At the end of the three hours’ steady travelling Loiseau gathered up his cards and remarked facetiously, “It’s turning hungry.”

His wife then produced a parcel, which she untied, and brought out a piece of cold veal. This she cut up into thin, firm slices, and both began to eat.

“Supposing we do the same?” said the Countess, and proceeded to unpack the provisions prepared for both couples. In one of those oblong dishes with a china hare upon the cover to indicate that a roast hare lies beneath, was a succulent selection of cold viands⁠—brown slices of juicy venison mingled with other meats. A delicious square of Gruyère cheese wrapped in newspaper still bore imprinted on its dewy surface the words “General News.”

The two Sisters brought out a sausage smelling of garlic, and Cornudet, plunging his hands into the vast pockets of his loose greatcoat, drew up four hard-boiled eggs from one and a big crust of bread from the other. He peeled off the shells and threw them into the straw under his feet, and proceeded to bite into the egg, dropping pieces of the yolk into his long beard, from whence they shone out like stars.

In the hurry and confusion of the morning Boule de Suif had omitted to take thought for the future, and she looked on, furious, choking with mortification, at these people all munching away so placidly. A storm of rage convulsed her, and she opened her mouth to hurl at them the torrent of abuse that rose to her lips, but she could not speak, suffocated by her indignation.

Nobody looked at her, nobody thought of her. She felt herself drowning in the flood of contempt shown towards her by these honest scoundrels who had first sacrificed her and then cast her off like some useless and unclean thing. Then her thoughts reverted to her great basket full of good things which they had so greedily devoured⁠—the two fowls in their glittering coat of jelly, her patties, her pears, her four bottles of claret; and her fury suddenly subsided like the breaking of an overstrung chord and she felt that she was on the verge of tears. She made the most strenuous efforts to overcome it⁠—straightened herself up and choked back her sobs as children do, but the tears would rise. They glittered for a moment on her lashes, and presently two big drops rolled slowly over her cheeks. Others gathered in quick succession like water dripping from a rock and splashed on to the ample curve of her bosom. She sat up very straight, her eyes fixed, her face pale and rigid, hoping that nobody would notice.

But the Countess saw her and nudged her husband. He shrugged his shoulders as much as to say, “What can you expect? It is not my fault.” Madame Loiseau gave a silent chuckle of triumph and murmured, “She is crying over her shame.” The two Sisters had resumed their devotions after carefully wrapping up the remnants of their sausages.

Then Cornudet, while digesting his eggs, stretched his long legs under the opposite seat, leaned back, smiled like a man who has just thought of a capital joke, and began to softly whistle the “Marseillaise.”

The faces clouded; the popular air seemed unpleasing to his neighbors; they became nervous⁠—irritable⁠—looking as if they were ready to throw back their heads and howl like dogs at the sound of a barrel organ. He was perfectly aware of this, but did not stop. From time to time he hummed a few of the words:

Amour sacré de la patrie,
Conduis, soutiens nos bras vengeurs,
Liberté, liberté chérie,
Combats avec tes défenseurs!

They drove at a much quicker pace today, the snow being harder; and all the way to Dieppe, during the long, dull hours of the journey, through all the jolting and rattling of the conveyance, in the falling shades of evening and later in the profound darkness of the carriage he continued with unabated persistency his vengeful and monotonous whistling; forcing his wearied and exasperated fellow travellers to follow the song from end to end and to remember every word that corresponded to each note.

And Boule de Suif wept on, and at times a sob which she could not repress broke out between two couplets in the darkness.

Les Dimanches d’Un Bourgeois

Suicides

Hardly a day goes by without our reading in some newspaper the following paragraph.

“On Wednesday night the people living in No. 40 Rue de ⸻, were awakened by two shots in succession. They seemed to come from the apartment occupied by M. X. ⸻. The door was broken in and the man was found bathed in his blood, still holding in one hand the revolver with which he had taken his life.

“M. X. ⸻ was fifty-seven years of age, enjoying a comfortable income, and had everything necessary to make him happy. No cause can be found for his action.”

What terrible grief, what unknown suffering, hidden despair, secret wounds drive these presumably happy persons to suicide? We search, we imagine tragedies of love, we suspect financial troubles, and, as we never find anything definite, we apply to these deaths the word “mystery.”

A letter found on the desk of one of these “suicides without cause,” and written during his last night, beside his loaded revolver, has come into our hands. We deem it rather interesting. It reveals none of those great catastrophes which we always expect to find behind these acts of despair; but it shows us the slow succession of the little vexations of life, the disintegration of a lonely existence, whose dreams have disappeared; it gives the reason for these tragic ends, which only nervous and high-strung people can understand.

Here it is:

“It is midnight. When I have finished this letter I shall kill myself. Why? I shall attempt to give the reasons, not for those who may read these lines, but for myself, to kindle my waning courage, to impress upon myself the fatal necessity of this act which could only be deferred.

“I was brought up by simple-minded parents who were unquestioning believers. And I believed as they did.

“My dream lasted a long time. The last veil has just been torn from my eyes.

“During the last few years a strange change has been taking place within me. All the events of Life, which formerly had to me the glow of a beautiful sunset, are now fading away. The true meaning of things has appeared to me in its brutal reality; and the true reason for love has bred in me disgust even for romantic love. ‘We are the eternal toys of foolish and charming illusions, which are always being renewed.’

“On growing older, I had become partly reconciled to the awful mystery of life, to the uselessness of effort; when the emptiness of everything appeared to me in a new light, this evening, after dinner.

“Formerly, I was happy! Everything pleased me: the passing women, the appearance of the streets, the place where I lived; and I even took an interest in the cut of my clothes. But the repetition of the same sights has had the result of filling my heart with weariness and disgust, just as one would feel were one to go every night to the same theatre.

“For the last thirty years I have been rising at the same hour; and, at the same restaurant, for thirty years, I have been eating at the same hours the same dishes brought me by different waiters.

“I have tried travel. The loneliness which one feels in strange places terrified me. I felt so alone, so small on the earth that I quickly started on my homeward journey.

“But here the unchanging expression of my furniture, which has stood for thirty years in the same place, the worn armchairs that I had known when quite new, the smell of my apartment (for, with time, each dwelling takes on a particular odour) each night, these and other things disgust me and make me sick of living thus.

“Everything repeats itself endlessly. The way in which I put my key in the lock, the place where I always find my matches, the first object which meets my eye when I enter the room, make me feel like jumping out of the window and putting an end to those monotonous events from which we can never escape.

“Each day, when I shave, I feel an inordinate desire to cut my throat; and my face, which I see in the little mirror, always the same, with soap on my cheeks, has several times made me cry from sadness.

“Now I even hate to be with people whom I used to meet with pleasure; I know them so well, I can tell just what they are going to say and what I am going to answer. Each brain is like a circus, where the same horse keeps circling around eternally. In spite of our efforts, our detours, the limit is near, and it is rounded out continuously, without any unexpected sallies, and without a door leading to the unknown. We must circle round always, around the same ideas, the same joys, the same pleasures, the same habits, the same beliefs, the same sensations of disgust.

“The fog was terrible this evening. It enfolded the boulevard, where the street lights were dimmed and looked like smoking candles. A heavier weight than usual oppressed me. Perhaps my digestion was bad.

“For good digestion is everything in life. It gives inspiration to the artist, amorous desires to young people, clear ideas to thinkers, the joy of life to everybody, and it also allows one to eat heartily (which is really the greatest pleasure). A sick stomach induces scepticism, unbelief, nightmares, and a desire for death. I have often noticed this fact. Perhaps I would not kill myself, if my digestion had been good this evening.

“When I sat down in the armchair where I have been sitting every day for thirty years, I glanced around me, and just then I was seized by such a terrible distress that I thought I must go mad.

“I tried to think of what I could do to run away from myself. Every occupation struck me as being worse even than inaction. Then I bethought me of putting my papers in order.

“For a long time I have been thinking of clearing out my drawers; for, for the last thirty years, I have been throwing my letters and bills pell-mell into the same desk, and this confusion has often caused me considerable trouble. But I feel such moral and physical laziness at the sole idea of putting anything in order that I have never had the courage to begin this tedious business.

“I therefore opened my desk, intending to choose among my old papers and destroy the majority of them.

“At first I was bewildered by this array of documents, yellowed by age, then I chose one.

“Oh! if you cherish life, never disturb the burial place of old letters!

“And if, perchance, you should, take the contents by the handful, close your eyes that you may not read a word, so that you may not recognize some forgotten handwriting which may plunge you suddenly into a sea of memories; carry these papers to the fire; and when they are in ashes, crush them to an invisible powder, or otherwise you are lost⁠—just as I have been lost for an hour.

“The first letters which I read not did interest me greatly. They were recent, and came from living men whom I still meet quite often, and whose presence does not move me to any great extent. But all at once one envelope made me start. My name was traced on it in a large, bold, handwriting; and suddenly tears came to my eyes. That letter was from my dearest friend, the companion of my youth, the confidant of my hopes; and he appeared before me so clearly, with his pleasant smile and his hand outstretched, that a cold shiver ran down my back. Yes, yes, the dead come back, for I saw him! Our memory is a more perfect world than the universe: it gives back life to those who no longer exist.

“With trembling hand and dimmed eyes I reread everything that he told me, and in my poor sobbing heart I felt a wound so painful that I began to groan as a man whose bones are slowly being crushed.

“Then I travelled over my whole life, just as one travels along a river. I recognized people so long forgotten that I no longer knew their names. Their faces alone lived in me. In my mother’s letters I saw again the old servants, the shape of our house and the little insignificant odds and ends which cling to our minds.

“Yes, I suddenly saw again all my mother’s old gowns, the different styles which she adopted and the several ways in which she dressed her hair. She haunted me especially in a silk dress, trimmed with old lace; and I remembered something she said one day when she was wearing this dress. She said: ‘Robert, my child, if you do not stand up straight you will be round-shouldered all your life.’

“Then, opening another drawer, I found myself face to face with memories of tender passions: a dancing-pump, a torn handkerchief, even a garter, locks of hair and dried flowers. Then the sweet romances of my life, whose living heroines are now white-haired, plunged me into the deep melancholy of things. Oh, the young brows where blond locks curl, the caress of the hands, the glance which speaks, the hearts which beat, that smile which promises the lips, those lips which promise the embrace! And the first kiss⁠—that endless kiss which makes you close your eyes, which drowns all thought in the immeasurable joy of approaching possession!

“Taking these old pledges of former love in both my hands, I covered them with furious caresses, and in my soul, torn by these memories, I saw them each again at the hour of surrender; and I suffered a torture more cruel than all the tortures invented in all the fables about hell.

“One last letter remained. It was written by me and dictated fifty years ago by my writing teacher.

“Here it is:

“ ‘My Dear Little Mamma:

“ ‘I am seven years old today. It is the age of understanding. I take advantage of it to thank you for having brought me into this world.

“It is all over. I had gone back to the beginning, and suddenly I turned my glance on what remained to me of life. I saw hideous and lonely old age, and approaching infirmities, and everything over and gone. And nobody near me!

“My revolver is here, on the table. I am loading it.⁠ ⁠… Never reread your old letters!”

And that is how many men come to kill themselves; and we search in vain to discover some great sorrow in their lives.

A Grandmother’s Advice

The old-fashioned château was built on a wooded height. Tall trees surrounded it with dark greenery; and the vast park extended its vistas here over a deep forest and there over an open plain. Some little distance from the front of the mansion stood a huge stone basin in which marble nymphs were bathing. Other basins arranged in order succeeded each other down as far as the foot of the slope, and a spring which had been turned to the purpose sent cascades dancing from one to the other.

From the manor house which preserved the grace of a superannuated coquette down to the grottoes encrusted with shell-work, where slumbered the loves of a bygone age, everything in this antique demesne had retained the physiognomy of former days. Everything seemed to speak still of ancient customs, of the manners of long ago, of faded gallantries, and of the airy graces so dear to our grandmothers.

In a little Louis XV drawing room, whose walls were covered with shepherds paying court to shepherdesses, beautiful ladies in hoop-petticoats, and gallant gentlemen in wigs, a very old woman who seemed dead as soon as she ceased to move was almost lying down in a large easy-chair, while her thin, mummy-like hands hung down, on each side of the chair.

Her eyes were gazing languidly towards the distant horizon as if they sought to follow through the park visions of her youth. Through the open window every now and then came a breath of air laden with the scent of grass and the perfume of flowers. It made her white locks flutter around her wrinkled forehead and old memories, through her brain.

Beside her on a stool covered with tapestry, a young girl with long, fair hair hanging in plaits over her neck, was embroidering an altar-cloth. There was a pensive expression in her eyes, and it was easy to see that, while her agile fingers worked, her brain was busy with thoughts.

But the old lady suddenly turned round her head.

“Berthe,” she said, “read something out of the newspapers for me, so that I may still know sometimes what is happening in the world.”

The young girl took up a newspaper, and cast a rapid glance over it.

“There is a great deal about politics, grandmamma; am I to pass it by?”

“Yes, yes, darling. Are there no accounts of love affairs? Is gallantry, then, dead in France, that they no longer talk about abductions or adventures as they did formerly?”

The girl made a long search through the columns of the newspaper.

“Here is one,” she said. “It is entitled: ‘A Love Drama!’ ”

The old woman smiled through her wrinkles. “Read that for me,” she said.

And Berthe commenced. It was a case of vitriol-throwing. A wife, in order to avenge herself on her husband’s mistress, had burned her face and eyes. She had left the Assize Court acquitted, declared to be innocent, amid the applause of the crowd.

The grandmother moved about excitedly in her chair, and exclaimed:

“This is horrible⁠—why, it is perfectly horrible! See whether you can find anything else to read for me, darling.”

Berthe again made a search; and farther down in police court reports, where she was still looking, she read:

“ ‘Awful Tragedy.’⁠—An ancient virgin had allowed herself to yield to the embraces of a young man. Then, to avenge herself on her lover, whose heart was fickle, and whose allowance was ungenerous, she shot him four times at close range with a revolver. Two bullets had lodged in his chest, one in his shoulder, one in his thigh. The unhappy man would be maimed for life. The lady was acquitted amidst the applause of the crowd, and the newspaper spoke very severely of this seducer of foolish virgins.”

This time the old grandmother appeared quite shocked, and, in a trembling voice, she said:

“Why, you are mad, nowadays. You are mad! The good God has given you love, the only allurement in life. Man has added to this gallantry, the only distraction of our dull hours, and here are you mixing up with it vitriol and revolvers, as if one were to put mud into a flagon of Spanish wine.”

Berthe did not seem to understand her grandmother’s indignation.

“But grandmamma, this woman avenged herself. Remember she was married, and her husband deceived her.”

The grandmother gave a start.

“What ideas have they been filling your head with, you young girls of today?”

Berthe replied:

“But marriage is sacred, grandmamma.”

The grandmother’s heart, which had its birth in the great age of gallantry, gave a sudden leap.

“It is love that is sacred,” she said. “Listen, child, to an old woman who has seen three generations, and who has had a long, long experience of men and women. Marriage and love have nothing in common. We marry to found a family, and we form families in order to constitute society. Society cannot dispense with marriage. If society is a chain, each family is a link in that chain. In order to weld those links, we always seek for metals of the same kind. When we marry, we must bring the same conventions together; we must combine fortunes, unite similar races, and aim at the common interest, which is riches and children. We marry only once, my child, because the world requires us to do so, but we may love twenty times in one lifetime because nature has so made us. Marriage, you see, is law, and love is an instinct, which impels us sometimes along a straight and sometimes along a crooked path. The world has made laws to combat our instincts⁠—it was necessary to make them; but our instincts are always stronger, and we ought not to resist them too much, because they come from God, while the laws only come from men. If we did not perfume life with love, as much love as possible, darling, as we put sugar into medicines for children, nobody would care to take it just as it is.”

Berthe opened her eyes widely in astonishment. She murmured:

“Oh! grandmamma, we can only love once.”

The grandmother raised her trembling hands towards Heaven, as if again to invoke the defunct God of gallantries. She exclaimed indignantly:

“You have become a race of serfs, a race of common people. Since the Revolution, it is impossible any longer to recognise society. You have attached big words to every action, and wearisome duties to every corner of existence; you believe in equality and eternal passion. People have written verses telling you that people have died of love. In my time verses were written to teach men to love every woman. And we! when we liked a gentleman, my child, we sent him a page. And when a fresh caprice came into our hearts, we were not slow in getting rid of the last lover⁠—unless we kept both of them.”

The young girl, turning very pale, faltered out:

“So then women had no honour?”

The old lady was furious: “No honour! because we loved, and dared to say so, and even boasted of it? But, my child, if one of us, among the greatest ladies in France, had lived without a lover, she would have had the entire court laughing at her. And you imagine, perhaps, that your husbands will love only you all their lives? As if, indeed, that could be the case! I tell you that marriage is a thing necessary in order that Society should exist, but it is not in the nature of our race, do you understand? There is only one good thing in life, and that is love, and they want to deprive us of it. Nowadays you are told: ‘You must love one man only.’ It is as if somebody were to force me to eat turkey only all my life long. But that man is to have as many mistresses as there are months in the year!

“He will follow his amorous instincts, which will drive him towards women as butterflies are attracted by every flower. Then I am to go out into the streets with a bottle of vitriol and blind the poor girls who only obeyed their instincts! I am not to revenge myself on him, but on them! I am to make a monster of some poor creature whom God created to please, to love and to be loved. And your present day society, your society of clowns, of bourgeois, of beggars on horseback, will applaud and acquit me. It is infamous, I tell you, that you cannot understand love; and I am glad to die rather than see a world without gallantry, without women who know what love means. You take everything seriously nowadays, the vengeance of low females who kill their lovers brings tears of pity to the eyes of the twelve citizens come together to probe the hearts of criminals. Is that your wisdom? Your logic? Women shoot men, and then complain that men are no longer gallant!”

The young girl seized the wrinkled hands of the old lady in hers, which were trembling:

“Please stop, grandmother!”

And, on her knees, with tears in her eyes, she prayed to Heaven to bestow on her a great passion, one eternal passion alone, in accordance with the dream of modern poets, while the grandmother, kissing her forehead, still quite penetrated by that charming, healthy logic with which the philosophers of gallantry sprinkled salt upon the life of the eighteenth century, murmured:

“Take care, my poor darling! If you believe in such foolishness as this, you will be very unhappy.”

Story of a Farm Girl

A Country Excursion

For five months they had been talking of going to lunch at some country restaurant in the neighbourhood of Paris, on Madame Dufour’s birthday, and as they were looking forward very impatiently to the outing, they had risen very early that morning. Monsieur Dufour had borrowed the milkman’s cart, and drove himself. It was a very neat, two-wheeled conveyance. It had a roof supported by four iron posts to which were attached curtains, which had been raised so that they could see the countryside. The curtain at the back, alone, fluttered in the breeze like a flag. Madame Dufour, resplendent in a wonderful, cherry-coloured silk dress, sat by the side of her husband. The old grandmother and the daughter were accommodated with two chairs, and a yellow-haired youth, of whom, however, nothing was to be seen except his head, lay at the bottom of the trap.

After they had followed the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, and passed the fortifications by the Porte Maillot, they began to enjoy the scenery.

When they got to the bridge of Neuilly, Monsieur Dufour said: “Here we are in the country at last!” At that warning, his wife grew sentimental about the beauties of nature. When they got to the crossroads at Courbevoie, they were seized with admiration for the tremendous view. Down there on the right was the spire of Argenteuil church, above it rose the hills of Sannois and the mill of Orgemont, while on the left, the aqueduct of Marly stood out against the clear morning sky. In the distance they could see the terrace of Saint-Germain, and opposite to them, at the end of a low chain of hills, the new fort of Cormeilles. Far in the background, a very long way off, beyond the plains and villages, one could see the sombre green of the forests.

The sun was beginning to burn their faces, the dust got into their eyes, and on either side of the road there stretched an interminable tract of bare, ugly country, which smelled unpleasant. You would have thought that it had been ravaged by a pestilence which had even attacked the buildings, for skeletons of dilapidated and deserted houses, or small cottages left in an unfinished state, as if the contractors had not been paid, reared their four roofless walls on each side.

Here and there tall factory-chimneys rose up from the barren soil, the only vegetation on that putrid land, where the spring breezes wafted an odour of petroleum and slate, mingled with another smell that was even still less agreeable. At last, however, they crossed the Seine a second time. It was delightful on the bridge; the river sparkled in the sun, and they had a feeling of quiet satisfaction and enjoyment in drinking in purer air, not impregnated by the black smoke of factories, nor by the miasma from the dumping-grounds. A man whom they met told them that the name of the place was Bezons; so Monsieur Dufour pulled up, and read the attractive announcement outside an eating-house:

“Restaurant Poulin, fish soups and fried fish, private rooms, arbours, and swings.”

“Well! Madame Dufour, will this suit you? Will you make up your mind at last?”

She read the announcement in her turn, and then looked at the house for a time.

It was a white country inn, built by the roadside, and through the open door she could see the bright zinc of the counter, at which two workmen in their Sunday best were sitting. At last she made up her mind, and said:

“Yes, this will do; and, besides, there is a view.”

So they drove into a large stretch of ground planted with trees, behind the inn, which was only separated from the river by the towing-path, and got out. The husband sprang out first, and held out his arms for his wife. As the step was very high, Madame Dufour, in order to reach him, had to show the lower part of her limbs, whose former slenderness had disappeared in fat. Monsieur Dufour, who was already getting excited by the country air, pinched her calf, and then, taking her in his arms, set her on the ground, as if she had been some enormous bundle. She shook the dust out of the silk dress, and then looked round, to see in what sort of a place she was.

She was a stout woman, of about thirty-six, like a full-blown rose, and delightful to look at. She could hardly breathe, as she was laced too tightly, which forced the heaving mass of her superabundant bosom up to her double chin. Next, the girl put her hand on to her father’s shoulder, and jumped lightly down. The youth with the yellow hair had got down by stepping on the wheel, and he helped Monsieur Dufour to get the grandmother out. Then they unharnessed the horse, which they tied up to a tree, and the carriage fell back, with both shafts in the air. The man and boy took off their coats, washed their hands in a pail of water, and then joined the ladies, who had already taken possession of the swings.

Mademoiselle Dufour was trying to swing herself standing up, but she could not succeed in getting a start. She was a pretty girl of about eighteen; one of those women who suddenly excite your desire when you meet them in the street, and who leave you with a vague feeling of uneasiness and of excited senses. She was tall, had a small waist and large hips, with a dark skin, very large eyes, and very black hair. Her dress clearly marked the outlines of her firm, full figure, which was accentuated by the motion of her hips as she tried to swing herself higher. Her arms were stretched over her head to hold the rope, so that her bosom rose at every movement she made. Her hat, which a gust of wind had blown off, was hanging behind her, and as the swing gradually rose higher and higher, she showed her delicate limbs up to the knees at each time, and the wind from the perfumed petticoats, more heady than the fumes of wine, blew into the faces of her father and friend, who were looking at her, smiling.

Sitting in the other swing, Madame Dufour kept saying in a monotonous voice:

“Cyprian, come and swing me; do come and swing me, Cyprian!”

At last he complied, and turning up his shirtsleeves, as if he intended to work very hard, with much difficulty he set his wife in motion. She clutched the two ropes, and held her legs out straight, so as not to touch the ground. She enjoyed feeling giddy from the motion of the swing, and her whole figure shook like a jelly on a dish, but as she went higher and higher, she grew too giddy and got frightened. Every time she was coming back, she uttered a shriek, which made all the little urchins come round, and down below, beneath the garden hedge, she vaguely saw a row of mischievous heads, making faces as they laughed.

When a servant girl came out, they ordered lunch.

“Some fried fish, a stewed rabbit, salad, and dessert,” Madame Dufour said, with an important air.

“Bring two quarts of wine, and a bottle of claret,” her husband said.

“We will have lunch on the grass,” the girl added.

The grandmother, who had an affection for cats, had been petting one that belonged to the house, and had been bestowing the most affectionate words on it, for the last ten minutes. The animal, no doubt secretly pleased by her attentions, kept close to the good woman, but just out of reach of her hand, and quietly walked round the trees, against which she rubbed herself, with her tail up, purring with pleasure.

“Hello!” exclaimed the youth with the yellow hair, who was ferreting about, “here are two swell boats!” They all went to look at them, and saw two beautiful skiffs in a wooden boathouse, which were as beautifully finished as if they had been objects of luxury. They were moored side by side, like two tall, slender girls, in their narrow shining length, and aroused in one a wish to drift in them on warm summer mornings and evenings, along flower-covered banks of the river, where the trees dip their branches into the water, where the rushes are continually rustling in the breeze, and where the swift kingfishers dart about like flashes of blue lightning.

The whole family looked at them with great respect.

“They are indeed two swell boats,” Monsieur Dufour repeated gravely, and he examined them closely, commenting on them like a connoisseur. He had been in the habit of rowing in his younger days, he said, and when he had that in his hands⁠—and he went through the action of pulling the oars⁠—he did not care a fig for anybody. He had beaten more than one Englishman formerly at the Joinville regattas, and he made jokes on the word “dames,” used to describe the two things for holding the oars. He grew quite excited at last, and offered to make a bet that in a boat like that he could row six miles an hour, without exerting himself.

“Lunch is ready,” said the servant, appearing at the entrance to the boathouse. They all hurried off, but two young men were already lunching at the best place, which Madame Dufour had chosen in her mind as her seat. No doubt they were the owners of the skiffs, for they were dressed in boating costume. They were stretched out, almost lying on chairs, and were sunburned, and had on flannel trousers and thin cotton jerseys, with short sleeves, which showed their bare arms, which were as strong as blacksmiths’. They were two strong young fellows, who thought a great deal of their vigour, and who showed in all their movements that elasticity and grace of limb which can only be acquired by exercise, and which is so different from the awkwardness with which the same continual work stamps the mechanic.

They exchanged a rapid smile when they saw the mother, and then a look on seeing the daughter.

“Let us give up our place,” one of them said; “it will make us acquainted with them.”

The other got up immediately, and holding his black and red boating-cap in his hand, he politely offered the ladies the only shady place in the garden. With many excuses they accepted, and so that it might be more rural, they sat on the grass, without either tables or chairs.

The two young men took their plates, knives, forks, etc., to a table a little way off, and began to eat again. Their bare arms, which they showed continually, rather embarrassed the young girl, who even pretended to turn her head aside, and not to see them. But Madame Dufour, who was rather bolder, tempted by feminine curiosity, looked at them every moment, and no doubt compared them with the secret unsightliness of her husband. She had squatted herself on the ground with her legs tucked under her, after the manner of tailors, and kept wriggling about continually, under the pretext that ants were crawling about her somewhere. Monsieur Dufour, whom the presence and politeness of the strangers had put into rather a bad temper, was trying to find a comfortable position, which he did not, however, succeed in doing, while the youth with the yellow hair was eating as silently as an ogre.

“It is lovely weather, Monsieur,” the stout lady said to one of the boating-men. She wished to be friendly, because they had given up their place.

“It is, indeed, Madame,” he replied; “do you often go into the country?”

“Oh! Only once or twice a year, to get a little fresh air; and you, Monsieur?”

“I come and sleep here every night.”

“Oh! That must be very nice?”

“Certainly it is, Madame.” And he gave them such a poetical account of his daily life, that in the hearts of these shopkeepers, who were deprived of the meadows, and who longed for country walks, it roused that innate love of nature, which they all felt so strongly the whole year round, behind the counter in their shop.

The girl raised her eyes and looked at the oarsman with emotion, and Monsieur Dufour spoke for the first time.

“It is indeed a happy life,” he said. And then he added: “A little more rabbit, my dear?”

“No, thank you,” she replied, and turning to the young men again, and pointing to their arms, asked: “Do you never feel cold like that?”

They both laughed, and amazed the family by telling of the enormous fatigue they could endure, of bathing while in a state of tremendous perspiration, of rowing in the fog at night, and they struck their chests violently, to show how they sounded.

“Ah! You look very strong,” the husband said, and he did not talk any more of the time when he used to beat the English. The girl was looking at them askance now, and the young fellow with the yellow hair, as he had swallowed some wine the wrong way, and was coughing violently, bespattered Madame Dufour’s cherry-coloured silk dress. Madame got angry, and sent for some water to wash the spots.

Meanwhile it had grown unbearably hot, the sparkling river looked like a blaze of fire and the fumes of the wine were getting into their heads. Monsieur Dufour, who had a violent hiccup, had unbuttoned his waistcoat and the top of his trousers, while his wife, who felt choking, was gradually unfastening her dress. The youth was shaking his yellow mop of hair in a happy frame of mind, and kept helping himself to wine, and as the old grandmother felt drunk, she endeavoured to be very stiff and dignified. As for the girl, she showed nothing except a peculiar brightness in her eyes, while the brown skin on her cheeks became more rosy.

The coffee finished them off; they spoke of singing, and each of them sang, or repeated a couplet, which the others repeated enthusiastically. Then they got up with some difficulty, and while the two women, who were rather dizzy, were getting some fresh air, the two males, who were altogether drunk, were performing gymnastic tricks. Heavy, limp, and with scarlet faces, they hung awkwardly on to the iron rings, without being able to raise themselves, while their shirts were continually threatening to part company with their trousers, and to flap in the wind like flags.

Meanwhile, the two boating-men had got their skiffs into the water. They came back, and politely asked the ladies whether they would like a row.

“Would you like one, Monsieur Dufour?” his wife exclaimed. “Please come!”

He merely gave her a drunken look, without understanding what she said. Then one of the rowers came up, with two fishing-rods in his hand; and the hope of catching a gudgeon, that great aim of the Parisian shopkeeper, made Dufour’s dull eyes gleam. He politely allowed them to do whatever they liked, while he sat in the shade, under the bridge, with his feet dangling over the river, by the side of the young man with the yellow hair, who was sleeping soundly close to him.

One of the boating-men made a martyr of himself, and took the mother.

“Let us go to the little wood on the Ile aux Anglais!” he called out, as he rowed off. The other skiff went slower, for the rower was looking at his companion so intently, that he thought of nothing else. His emotion paralysed his strength, while the girl, who was sitting on the steerer’s seat, gave herself up to the enjoyment of being on the water. She felt disinclined to think, felt a lassitude in her limbs, a complete self-relaxation, as if she were intoxicated. She had become very flushed, and breathed pantingly. The effect of the wine, increased by the extreme heat, made all the trees on the bank seem to bow, as she passed. A vague wish for enjoyment, a fermentation of her blood, seemed to pervade her whole body, and she was also a little agitated by this tête-à-tête on the water, in a place which seemed depopulated by the heat, with this young man, who thought her beautiful, whose looks seemed to caress her skin, and whose eyes were as penetrating and exciting as the sun’s rays.

Their inability to speak increased their emotion, and they looked about them. At last he made an effort and asked her name.

“Henriette,” she said.

“Why! My name is Henri,” he replied. The sound of their voices calmed them, and they looked at the banks. The other skiff had gone ahead of them, and seemed to be waiting for them. The rower called out:

“We will meet you in the wood; we are going as far as Robinson because Madame Dufour is thirsty.” Then he bent over his oars again and rowed off so quickly that he was soon out of sight.

Meanwhile, a continual roar, which they had heard for some time, came nearer, and the river itself seemed to shiver, as if the dull noise were rising from its depths.

“What is that noise?” she asked. It was the noise of the weir, which cut the river in two, at the island. He was explaining it to her, when above the noise of the waterfall they heard the song of a bird, which seemed a long way off.

“Listen!” he said; “the nightingales are singing during the day, so the females must be sitting.”

A nightingale! She had never heard one before, and the idea of listening to one roused visions of poetic tenderness in her heart. A nightingale! That is to say, the invisible witness of the lover’s interview which Juliet invoked on her balcony; that celestial music which is attuned to human kisses; that eternal inspirer of all those languorous romances which open idealized visions to the poor, tender, little hearts of sensitive girls!

She was going to hear a nightingale.

“We must not make a noise,” her companion said, “and then we can go into the wood, and sit down close to it.”

The skiff seemed to glide. They saw the trees on the island, the banks of which were so low that they could look into the depths of the thickets. They stopped, he made the boat fast, Henriette took hold of Henri’s arm, and they went beneath the trees.

“Stoop,” he said, so she bent down, and they went into an inextricable thicket of creepers, leaves, and reed-grass, which formed an impenetrable retreat, and which the young man laughingly called “his private room.”

Just above their heads, perched in one of the trees which hid them, the bird was still singing. He uttered shakes and trills, and then long, vibrating sounds that filled the air and seemed to lose themselves in the distance, across the level country, through that burning silence which hung low upon the whole country round. They did not speak for fear of frightening the bird away. They were sitting close together, and slowly Henri’s arm stole round the girl’s waist and squeezed it gently. She took that daring hand, but without anger, and kept removing it whenever he put it round her; not, however, feeling at all embarrassed by this caress, just as if it had been something quite natural which she was resisting just as naturally.

She was listening to the bird in ecstasy. She felt an infinite longing for happiness, for some sudden demonstration of tenderness, for a revelation of divine poesy. She felt such a softening at her heart, and such a relaxation of her nerves, that she began to cry, without knowing why. The young man was now straining her close to him, and she did not remove his arm; she did not think of it. Suddenly the nightingale stopped, and a voice called out in the distance:

“Henriette!”

“Do not reply,” he said in a low voice, “you will drive the bird away.”

But she had no idea of doing so, and they remained in the same position for some time. Madame Dufour had sat down somewhere or other, for from time to time they heard the stout lady break out into little bursts of laughter.

The girl was still crying; she was filled with delightful feelings, her skin was burning and she felt a strange sensation of tickling. Henri’s head was on her shoulder, and suddenly he kissed her on the lips. She was surprised and angry, and, to avoid him, she threw herself back. But he fell upon her and his whole body covered hers. For a long time he sought her lips, which she refused him, then he pressed her mouth to his. Seized with desire she returned his kiss, holding him to her breast, and she abandoned all resistance, as if crushed by too heavy a weight.

Everything about them was still. The bird began again to sing, sending forth three penetrating notes at first, like a call of love, then, after a momentary silence, it began in weaker tones its slow modulations. A soft breeze crept up, raising a murmur among the leaves, while from the depths of the branches two burning sighs mingled with the song of the nightingale and the gentle breath of the wood.

An intoxication possessed the bird and by degrees its notes came more rapidly like a fire spreading or a passion increasing, and they seemed to be an accompaniment to the kisses which resounded beneath the tree. Then the delirium of his song burst forth. He seemed to swoon on certain notes, to have spasms of melodious emotion. Sometimes he would rest a moment, emitting only two or three slight sounds suddenly terminated on a sharp note. Or he would launch into a frenzy, pouring out his song, with thrills and jerks, like a mad song of love, followed by cries of triumph. Then he stopped, hearing beneath him a sigh so deep that it seemed as though a soul were transported. The sound was prolonged for a while, then it ended in a sob.

They were both very pale when they quitted their grassy retreat. The blue sky looked dull to them, the ardent sun was clouded over to their eyes, they perceived not the solitude and the silence. They walked quickly side by side, without speaking or touching each other, appearing to be irreconcilable enemies, as if disgust had sprung up between their bodies, and hatred between their souls. From time to time Henriette called out: “Mamma!”

They heard a noise in a thicket, and Henri fancied he saw a white dress being quickly pulled down over a fat calf. The stout lady appeared, looking rather confused, and more flushed than ever, her eyes shining and her breast heaving, and perhaps just a little too close to her companion. The latter must have had some strange experience, for his face was wrinkled with smiles that he could not check.

Madame Dufour took his arm tenderly, and they returned to the boats. Henri went on first, still without speaking, by the girl’s side, and he thought he heard a loud kiss being stifled. At last they got back to Bezons.

Monsieur Dufour, who had sobered up, was waiting for them very impatiently, while the youth with the yellow hair was having a mouthful of something to eat before leaving the inn. The carriage was in the yard, with the horse yoked, and the grandmother, who had already got in, was frightened at the thought of being overtaken by night, before they got back to Paris, the outskirts not being safe.

The young men shook hands with them, and the Dufour family drove off.

“Goodbye, until we meet again!” the oarsmen cried, and the answers they got were a sigh and a tear.

Two months later, as Henri was going along the Rue des Martyrs, he saw “Dufour, Ironmonger,” over a door. So he went in, and saw the stout lady sitting at the counter. They recognized each other immediately, and after an interchange of polite greetings, he inquired after them all.

“And how is Mademoiselle Henriette?” he inquired, specially.

“Very well, thank you; she is married.”

“Ah!” Mastering his feelings, he added: “To whom was she married?”

“To that young man who went with us, you know; he has joined us in business.”

“I remember him perfectly.”

He was going out, feeling unhappy, though scarcely knowing why, when Madame called him back.

“And how is your friend?” she asked, rather shyly.

“He is very well, thank you.”

“Please give him our compliments, and beg him to come and call when he is in the neighbourhood.” She blushed, then added: “Tell him it will give me great pleasure.”

“I will be sure to do so. Adieu!”

“I will not say that; come again, very soon.”

The next year, one very hot Sunday, all the details of that memorable adventure suddenly came back to him so clearly that he revisited the “private room” in the wood, and was overwhelmed with astonishment when he went in. She was sitting on the grass, looking very sad, while by her side, again in his shirtsleeves, the young man with the yellow hair was sleeping soundly, like some brute.

She grew so pale when she saw Henri, that at first he thought she was going to faint; then, however, they began to talk quite naturally, as if there had never been anything between them. But when he told her that he was very fond of that spot, and went there very often on Sundays, to dream of old memories, she looked into his eyes for a long time. “I, too, think of it every evening,” she replied.

“Come, my dear,” her husband said, with a yawn; “I think it is time for us to be going.”

In the Spring

When the first fine spring days come, and the earth awakes and assumes its garment of verdure, when the perfumed warmth of the air blows on our faces and fills our lungs, and even appears to penetrate our heart, we feel vague longings for undefined happiness, a wish to run, to walk at random, to inhale the spring. As the winter had been very severe the year before, this longing assumed an intoxicating feeling in May; it was like a superabundance of sap.

Well, one morning on waking, I saw from my window the blue sky glowing in the sun above the neighbouring houses. The canaries hanging in the windows were singing loudly, and so were the servants on every floor; a cheerful noise rose up from the streets, and I went out, with my spirits as bright as the day was, to go⁠—I did not exactly know where. Everybody I met seemed to be smiling; an air of happiness appeared to pervade everything, in the warm light of returning spring. One might almost have said that a breeze of love was blowing through the city, and the young women whom I saw in the streets in their morning toilettes, in the depths of whose eyes there lurked a hidden tenderness, and who walked with languid grace, filled my heart with agitation.

Without knowing how or why, I found myself on the banks of the Seine. Steamboats were starting for Suresnes, and suddenly I was seized by an unconquerable wish to have a walk through the woods. The deck of the Mouche6 was crowded with passengers, for the sun in early spring draws you out of the house, in spite of yourself, and everybody moves about, goes and comes, and talks to his neighbour.

I had a female neighbour; a little working-girl, no doubt, who possessed the true Parisian charm; a little head, with light curly hair, which looked like frizzed light, came down to her ears and descended to the nape of her neck, danced in the wind, and then became such fine, such light-coloured down, that one could scarcely see it, but on which one felt an irresistible desire to impress a shower of kisses.

Under my insistent glances, she turned her head towards me, and then immediately looked down, while a slight fold deepened the corner of her mouth, which looked as if she were ready to break out into a smile, and showed there more of that fine, silky, pale down which the sun was gilding a little.

The calm river grew wider; the atmosphere was warm and perfectly still, but a murmur of life seemed to fill all space. My neighbour raised her eyes again, and, this time, as I was still looking at her, she smiled, decidedly. She was charming like that, and in her passing glance, I saw a thousand things, which I had hitherto been ignorant of, for I saw unknown depths, all the charm of tenderness, all the poetry which we dream of, all the happiness for which we continually search. I felt an insane longing to open my arms and to carry her off somewhere, so as to whisper as to whisper the sweet music of words of love into her ears.

I was just going to speak to her, when somebody touched me on the shoulder, and when I turned round in some surprise, I saw an ordinary looking man, who was neither young nor old, and who gazed at me sadly:

“I should like to speak to you,” he said.

I made a grimace, which he no doubt saw, for he added:

“It is a matter of importance.”

I got up, therefore, and followed him to the other end of the boat, and then he said:

“Monsieur, when winter comes, with its cold, wet and snowy weather, your doctor says to you constantly: ‘Keep your feet warm, guard against chills, colds, bronchitis, rheumatism and pleurisy.’

“Then you are very careful, you wear flannel, a heavy overcoat and thick shoes, but all this does not prevent you from passing two months in bed. But when spring returns, with its leaves and flowers, its warm, soft breezes, and its smell of the fields, which cause you vague disquiet and causeless emotion, nobody says to you:

“ ‘Monsieur, beware of love! It is lying in ambush everywhere; it is watching for you at every corner; all its snares are laid, all its weapons are sharpened, all its guiles are prepared! Beware of love.⁠ ⁠… Beware of love. It is more dangerous than colds, bronchitis, or pleurisy! It never forgives, and makes everybody commit irreparable follies.’

“Yes, Monsieur, I say that the French Government ought to put large public notices on the walls, with these words: ‘Return of Spring. French citizens, beware of love!’ just as they put: ‘Beware of paint.’

“However, as the government will not do this, I must do it in its stead, and I say to you: ‘Beware of love,’ for it is just going to seize you, and it is my duty to inform you of it, just as in Russia they inform anyone that his nose is frozen.”

I was much astonished at this individual, and assuming a dignified manner, I said:

“Really, Monsieur, you appear to me to be interfering in a matter which is no business of yours.”

He made an abrupt movement, and replied:

“Ah! Monsieur! Monsieur! If I see that a man is in danger of being drowned at a dangerous spot, ought I to let him perish? So just listen to my story, and you will see why I ventured to speak to you like this.

“It was about this time last year that it occurred. But, first of all, I must tell you that I am a clerk in the Admiralty, where our chiefs, the commissioners, take their gold lace and quill-driving officers seriously, and treat us like foretop men on board a ship⁠—Ah, if all our chiefs were civilians⁠—but let that pass⁠—Well, from my office I could see a small bit of blue sky and the swallows, and I felt inclined to dance among my portfolios.

“My yearning for freedom grew so intense, that, in spite of my repugnance, I went to see my chief, who was a short, bad-tempered man, always in a rage. When I told him that I was not well, he looked at me, and said: ‘I do not believe it, Monsieur, but be off with you! Do you think that any office can go on, with clerks like you?’ I started at once, and went down the Seine. It was a day like this, and I took the Mouche, to go as far as Saint-Cloud. Ah! What a good thing it would have been if my chief had refused me permission to leave the office for the day!

“I seemed to expand in the sun. I loved it all; the steamer, the river, the trees, the houses, my fellow-passengers, everything. I felt inclined to kiss something, no matter what; it was love, laying its snare. Presently, at the Trocadéro, a girl, with a small parcel in her hand, came on board and sat down opposite to me. She was certainly pretty; but it is surprising, Monsieur, how much prettier women seem to us when it is fine, at the beginning of the spring. Then they have an intoxicating charm, something quite peculiar about them. It is just like drinking wine after the cheese.

“I looked at her, and she also looked at me, but only occasionally, like that girl did at you, just now; but at last, by dint of looking at each other constantly, it seemed to me that we knew each other well enough to enter into conversation, and I spoke to her, and she replied. She was decidedly pretty and nice, and she intoxicated me, Monsieur!

“She got out at Saint-Cloud, and I followed her. She went and delivered her parcel, and when she returned, the boat had just started. I walked by her side, and the warmth of the air made us both sigh. ‘It would be very nice in the woods,’ I said. ‘Indeed, it would,’ she replied. ‘Shall we go there for a walk, Mademoiselle?’

“She gave me a quick, upward look, as if to see exactly what I was like, and then, after a little hesitation, she accepted my proposal, and soon we were there, walking side by side. Under the foliage, which was still rather thin, the tall, thick, bright, green grass was inundated by the sun, and full of small insects that also made love to one another, and birds were singing everywhere. My companion began to jump and to run, intoxicated by the air, and the smell of the country, and I ran and jumped behind her. How stupid we are at times, Monsieur!

“Then she wildly sang a thousand things; opera airs, and the song of Musette! The song of Musette! How poetical it seemed to me, then! I almost cried over it. Ah! Those silly songs make us lose our heads; and, believe me, never marry a woman who sings in the country, especially if she sings the song of Musette!

“She soon grew tired, and sat down on a grassy slope, and I sat down at her feet, and took her hands, her little hands, that were so marked with the needle, and that moved me. I said to myself: ‘These are the sacred marks of toil.’ Oh! Monsieur, do you know what those sacred marks of labour mean? They mean all the gossip of the workroom, the whispered blackguardism, the mind soiled by all the filth that is talked; they mean lost chastity, foolish chatter, all the wretchedness of daily bad habits, all the narrowness of ideas which belongs to women of the lower orders, united in the girl whose sacred fingers bear the sacred marks of toil.

“Then we looked into each other’s eyes for a long while. Oh! What power a woman’s eye has! How it agitates us, how it invades our very being, takes possession of us, and dominates us. How profound it seems, how full of infinite promises! People call that looking into each other’s souls! Oh! Monsieur, what humbug! If we could see into each other’s souls, we should be more careful of what we did. However, I was enthusiastic, mad. I tried to take her into my arms, but she said: ‘Paws off!’ Then I knelt down, and opened my heart to her, and poured out all the affection that was suffocating me, on her knees. She seemed surprised at my change of manner, and gave me a sidelong glance, as if to say: ‘Ah! So that is the way women make a fool of you, old fellow! Very well, we will see.’ In love, Monsieur, we are all boobies at a fair, and the women are the dealers.

“No doubt I could have had her, and I saw my own stupidity later, but what I wanted was not a woman’s body; it was love, it was the ideal. I was sentimental, when I ought to have been using my time to a better purpose.

“As soon as she had had enough of my protestations of love, she got up, and we returned to Saint-Cloud, and I did not leave her until we got to Paris; but she looked so sad as we were returning, that at last I asked her what was the matter. ‘I am thinking,’ she replied, ‘that this has been one of those days of which we have but few in life.’ And my heart beat so that it felt as if it would break my ribs.

“I saw her on the following Sunday, and the next Sunday, and every Sunday. I took her to Bougival, Saint-Germain, Maisons-Lafitte, Poissy; to every suburban resort of lovers.

“The little jade, in turn, pretended to love me, until, at last, I altogether lost my head, and three months later I married her.

“What can you expect, Monsieur, when a man is a clerk, living alone, without any relations, or anyone to advise him? One says to oneself: ‘How sweet life would be with a wife!’

“And so one gets married, and she calls you names from morning till night, understands nothing, knows nothing, chatters continually, sings the song of Musette at the top of her voice (oh! that song of Musette, how tired one gets of it!); quarrels with the coal dealer, tells the concierge all her domestic details, confides all the secrets of her bedroom to the neighbour’s servant, discusses her husband with the tradespeople, and has her head so stuffed with stupid stories, idiotic superstitions, extraordinary ideas and monstrous prejudices, that I shed tears of discouragement every time I talk to her.”

He stopped, as he was rather out of breath, and very much moved, and I looked at him, for I felt pity for this poor, artless devil, and I was just going to give him some sort of answer, when the boat stopped. We were at Saint-Cloud.

The little woman who had so taken my fancy, got up in order to land. She passed close to me, and gave me a side glance and a furtive smile; one of those smiles that drive you mad; then she jumped on the landing-stage. I sprang forward to follow her, but my neighbour laid hold of my arm. I shook myself loose, however, whereupon he seized the skirt of my coat, and pulled me back, exclaiming:

“You shall not go! You shall not go!” in such a loud voice, that everybody turned round and laughed, and I remained standing motionless and furious, but without venturing to face scandal and ridicule, and the steamboat started.

The little woman on the landing-stage looked at me as I went off with an air of disappointment, while my persecutor rubbed his hands, and whispered to me:

“Well, I have done you a good turn, you’ll see!”

Paul’s Mistress

The Restaurant Grillon, a small commonwealth of boatmen, was slowly emptying. In front of the door all was tumult⁠—cries and calls⁠—and huge fellows in white jerseys gesticulated with oars on their shoulders.

The ladies in bright spring toilettes stepped aboard the skiffs with care, and seating themselves astern, arranged their dresses, while the landlord of the establishment, a mighty, red-bearded, self-possessed individual of renowned strength, offered his hand to the pretty creatures, and kept the frail crafts steady.

The rowers, bare-armed, with bulging chests, took their places in their turn, playing to the gallery as they did so⁠—a gallery consisting of middle-class people dressed in their Sunday clothes, of workmen and soldiers leaning upon their elbows on the parapet of the bridge, all taking a great interest in the sight.

One by one the boats cast off from the landing stage. The oarsmen bent forward and then threw themselves backward with even swing, and under the impetus of the long curved oars, the swift skiffs glided along the river, grew smaller in the distance, and finally disappeared under the railway bridge, as they descended the stream toward La Grenouillère. One couple only remained behind. The young man, still almost beardless, slender, with a pale countenance, held his mistress, a thin little brunette with the air of a grasshopper, by the waist; and occasionally they gazed into each other’s eyes. The landlord shouted:

“Come, Mr. Paul, make haste,” and they drew near.

Of all the guests of the house, Mr. Paul was the most liked and most respected. He paid well and punctually, while the others hung back for a long time if indeed they did not vanish without paying. Besides which he was a sort of walking advertisement for the establishment, inasmuch as his father was a senator. When a stranger would inquire: “Who on earth is that little chap who thinks so much of his girl?” some habitué would reply, half-aloud, with a mysterious and important air: “Don’t you know? That is Paul Baron, a senator’s son.”

And invariably the other would exclaim:

“Poor devil! He has got it badly.”

Mother Grillon, a good and worthy business woman, described the young man and his companion as “her two turtledoves,” and appeared quite touched by this passion, which was profitable for her business.

The couple advanced at a slow pace. The skiff Madeleine was ready, and at the moment of embarking they kissed each other, which caused the public collected on the bridge to laugh. Mr. Paul took the oars, and rowed away for La Grenouillère.

When they arrived it was just upon three o’clock and the large floating café overflowed with people.

The immense raft, sheltered by a tarpaulin roof, is joined to the charming island of Croissy by two narrow footbridges, one of which leads into the centre of the aquatic establishment, while the other unites with a tiny islet, planted with a tree and called “The Flower Pot,” and thence leads to land near the bath office.

Mr. Paul made fast his boat alongside the establishment, climbed over the railing of the café, and then, grasping his mistress’s hands, assisted her out of the boat. They both seated themselves at the end of a table opposite each other.

On the opposite side of the river along the towing-path, a long string of vehicles was drawn up. Cabs alternated with the fine carriages of the swells; the first, clumsy, with enormous bodies crushing the springs, drawn by broken-down hacks with hanging heads and broken knees; the second, slightly built on light wheels, with horses slender and straight, their heads well up, their bits snowy with foam, and with solemn coachmen in livery, heads erect in high collars, waiting bolt upright, with whips resting on their knees.

The bank was covered with people who came off in families, or in parties, or in couples, or alone. They plucked at the blades of grass, went down to the water, ascended the path, and having reached the spot, stood still awaiting the ferryman. The clumsy punt plied incessantly from bank to bank, discharging its passengers upon the island. The arm of the river (called the Dead Arm) upon which this refreshment wharf lay, seemed asleep, so feeble was the current. Fleets of yawls, of skiffs, of canoes, of podoscaphs, of gigs, of craft of all forms and of all kinds, crept about upon the motionless stream, crossing each other, intermingling, running foul of one another, stopping abruptly under a jerk of the arms only to shoot off afresh under a sudden strain of the muscles and gliding swiftly along like great yellow or red fishes.

Others arrived continually; some from Chatou up the stream; others from Bougival down it; laughter crossed the water from one boat to another, calls, admonitions, or imprecations. The boatmen exposed the bronzed and knotted muscles of their biceps to the heat of the day; and like strange floating flowers, the silk parasols, red, green, blue, or yellow, of the ladies bloomed in the sterns of the boats.

A July sun flamed high in the heavens; the atmosphere seemed full of burning merriment; not a breath of air stirred the leaves of the willows or poplars.

In front, away in the distance, the inevitable Mont-Valérien reared its fortified ramparts, tier above tier, in the intense light; while on the right the divine slopes of Louveciennes, following the bend of the river, disposed themselves in a semicircle, displaying in turn across the rich and shady lawns of large gardens the white walls of country seats.

Upon the outskirts of La Grenouillère a crowd of pedestrians moved about beneath the giant trees which make this corner of the island one of the most delightful parks in the world.

Women and girls with yellow hair and breasts developed beyond all measurement, with exaggerated hips, their complexions plastered with rouge, their eyes daubed with charcoal, their lips bloodred, laced up, rigged out in outrageous dresses, trailed the crying bad taste of their toilettes over the fresh green sward; while beside them young men posed in their fashion-plate garments with light gloves, patent leather boots, canes the size of a thread, and single eyeglasses emphasizing the insipidity of their smiles.

Opposite La Grenouillère the island is narrow, and on its other side, where also a ferryboat plies, bringing people unceasingly across from Croissy, the rapid branch of the river, full of whirlpools and eddies and foam, rushes along with the strength of a torrent. A detachment of pontoon-builders, in the uniform of artillerymen, was encamped upon this bank, and the soldiers seated in a row on a long beam watched the water flowing.

In the floating establishment there was a boisterous and uproarious crowd. The wooden tables upon which the spilt refreshments made little sticky streams were covered with half-empty glasses and surrounded by half-tipsy individuals. The crowd shouted, sang, and brawled. The men, their hats at the backs of their heads, their faces red, with the shining eyes of drunkards, moved about vociferating and evidently looking for the quarrels natural to brutes. The women, seeking their prey for the night, sought for free liquor in the meantime; and the unoccupied space between the tables was dominated by the customary local public, a whole regiment of rowdy boatmen, with their female companions in short flannel skirts.

One of them performed on the piano and appeared to play with his feet as well as his hands; four couples glided through a quadrille, and some young men watched them, polished and correct, men who would have looked respectable, did not their innate viciousness show in spite of everything.

For there you see all the scum of society, all its well-bred debauchery, all the seamy side of Parisian society⁠—a mixture of counter-jumpers, of strolling players, of low journalists, of gentlemen in tutelage, of rotten stockjobbers, of ill-famed debauchees, of old used-up fast men; a doubtful crowd of suspicious characters, half-known, half-sunk, half-recognised, half-criminal, pickpockets, rogues, procurers of women, sharpers with dignified manners, and a bragging air which seems to say: “I shall kill the first man who treats me as a scoundrel.”

The place reeks of folly, and stinks of vulgarity and cheap gallantry. Male and female are just as bad one as the other. There dwells an odour of so-called love, and there one fights for a yes, or for a no, in order to sustain a worm-eaten reputation, which a thrust of the sword or a pistol bullet only destroys further.

Some of the neighbouring inhabitants looked in out of curiosity every Sunday; some young men, very young, appeared there every year to learn how to live, some promenaders lounging about showed themselves there; some greenhorns wandered thither. With good reason is it named La Grenouillère. At the side of the covered wharf where drink was served, and quite close to the Flower Pot, people bathed. Those among the women who possessed the requisite roundness of form came there to display their wares and to get clients. The rest, scornful, although well filled out with wadding, supported by springs, corrected here and altered there, watched their dabbling sisters with disdain.

The swimmers crowded on to a little platform to dive. Straight like vine poles, or round like pumpkins, gnarled like olive branches, bowed over in front, or thrown backward by the size of their stomachs, and invariably ugly, they leaped into the water, splashing it over the drinkers in the café.

Notwithstanding the great trees which overhang the floating-house, and notwithstanding the vicinity of the water, a suffocating heat filled the place. The fumes of the spilt liquors mingled with the effluvia of the bodies and with the strong perfumes with which the skin of the trader in love is saturated and which evaporate in this furnace. But beneath all these diverse scents a slight aroma of poudre de riz lingered, disappearing and reappearing, and perpetually encountered as though some concealed hand had shaken an invisible powder-puff in the air. The show was on the river, where the perpetual coming and going of the boats attracted the eyes. The girls in the boats sprawled upon their seats opposite their strong-wristed males, and scornfully contemplated the dinner-hunting females prowling about the island.

Sometimes when a crew in full swing passed at top speed, the friends who had gone ashore gave vent to shouts, and all the people as if suddenly seized with madness commenced to yell.

At the bend of the river toward Chatou fresh boats continually appeared. They came nearer and grew larger, and as faces became recognisable, the vociferations broke out anew.

A canoe covered with an awning and manned by four women came slowly down the current. She who rowed was petite, thin, faded, in a cabin-boy’s costume, her hair drawn up under an oilskin hat. Opposite her, a lusty blonde, dressed as a man, with a white flannel jacket, lay upon her back at the bottom of the boat, her legs in the air, resting on the seat at each side of the rower. She smoked a cigarette, while at each stroke of the oars, her chest and her stomach quivered, shaken by the stroke. At the back, under the awning, two handsome girls, tall and slender, one dark and the other fair, held each other by the waist as they watched their companions.

A cry arose from La Grenouillère, “There’s Lesbos,” and all at once a furious clamour, a terrifying scramble took place; the glasses were knocked down; people clambered on to the tables; all in a frenzy of noise bawled: “Lesbos! Lesbos! Lesbos!” The shout rolled along, became indistinct, was no longer more than a kind of deafening howl, and then suddenly it seemed to start anew, to rise into space, to cover the plain, to fill the foliage of the great trees, to extend to the distant slopes, and reach even to the sun.

The rower, in the face of this ovation, had quietly stopped. The handsome blonde, stretched out upon the bottom of the boat, turned her head with a careless air, as she raised herself upon her elbows; and the two girls at the back commenced laughing as they saluted the crowd.

Then the hullabaloo redoubled, making the floating establishment tremble. The men took off their hats, the women waved their handkerchiefs, and all voices, shrill or deep, together cried:

“Lesbos.”

It was as if these people, this collection of the corrupt, saluted their chiefs like the warships which fire guns when an admiral passes along the line.

The numerous fleet of boats also saluted the women’s boat, which pushed along more quickly to land farther off.

Mr. Paul, contrary to the others, had drawn a key from his pocket and whistled with all his might. His nervous mistress grew paler, caught him by the arm to make him be quiet, and upon this occasion she looked at him with fury in her eyes. But he appeared exasperated, as though borne away by jealousy of some man or by deep anger, instinctive and ungovernable. He stammered, his lips quivering with indignation:

“It is shameful! They ought to be drowned like puppies with a stone about the neck.”

But Madeleine instantly flew into a rage; her small and shrill voice became a hiss, and she spoke volubly, as though pleading her own cause:

“And what has it to do with you⁠—you indeed? Are they not at liberty to do what they wish since they owe nobody anything? You shut up and mind your own business.”

But he cut her speech short:

“It is the police whom it concerns, and I will have them marched off to St. Lazare; indeed I will.”

She gave a start:

“You?”

“Yes, I! And in the meantime I forbid you to speak to them⁠—you understand, I forbid you to do so.”

Then she shrugged her shoulders and grew calm in a moment:

“My dear, I shall do as I please; if you are not satisfied, be off, and instantly. I am not your wife, am I? Very well then, hold your tongue.”

He made no reply and they stood face to face, their lips tightly closed, breathing quickly.

At the other end of the great wooden café the four women made their entry. The two in men’s costumes marched in front: the one thin like an oldish tomboy, with a yellow tinge on her temples; the other filling out her white flannel garments with her fat, swelling out her wide trousers with her buttocks and swaying about like a fat goose with enormous legs and yielding knees. Their two friends followed them, and the crowd of boatmen thronged about to shake their hands.

The four had hired a small cottage close to the water’s edge, and lived there as two households would have lived.

Their vice was public, recognised, patent to all. People talked of it as a natural thing, which almost excited their sympathy, and whispered in very low tones strange stories of dramas begotten of furious feminine jealousies, of the stealthy visit of well known women and of actresses to the little house close to the water’s edge.

A neighbour, horrified by these scandalous rumours, notified the police, and the inspector, accompanied by a man, had come to make inquiry. The mission was a delicate one; it was impossible, in short, to accuse these women, who did not abandon themselves to prostitution, of any tangible crime. The inspector, very much puzzled, and, indeed, ignorant of the nature of the offences suspected, had asked questions at random, and made a lofty report conclusive of their innocence.

The joke spread as far as Saint Germain. They walked about the Grenouillère establishment with mincing steps like queens; and seemed to glory in their fame, rejoicing in the gaze that was fixed on them, so superior to this crowd, to this mob, to these plebeians.

Madeleine and her lover watched them approach, and the girl’s eyes lit up.

When the first two had reached the end of the table, Madeleine cried:

“Pauline!”

The large woman turned and stopped, continuing all the time to hold the arm of her feminine cabin-boy:

“Good gracious, Madeleine! Do come and talk to me, my dear.”

Paul squeezed his fingers upon his mistress’s wrist, but she said to him, with such an air: “You know, my dear, you can clear out, if you like,” that he said nothing and remained alone.

Then they chatted in low voices, all three of them standing. Many pleasant jests passed their lips, they spoke quickly; and Pauline now and then looked at Paul, by stealth, with a shrewd and malicious smile.

At last, unable to put up with it any longer, he suddenly rose and in a single bound was at their side, trembling in every limb. He seized Madeleine by the shoulders.

“Come, I wish it,” said he; “I have forbidden you to speak to these sluts.”

Whereupon Pauline raised her voice and set to work blackguarding him with her Billingsgate vocabulary. All the bystanders laughed; they drew near him; they raised themselves on tiptoe in order the better to see him. He remained dumb under this downpour of filthy abuse. It appeared to him that the words which came from that mouth and fell upon him defiled him like dirt, and, in presence of the row which was beginning, he fell back, retraced his steps, and rested his elbows on the railing toward the river, turning his back upon the victorious women.

There he stayed watching the water, and sometimes with rapid gesture, as though he could pluck it out, he removed with his nervous fingers the tear which stood in his eye.

The fact was that he was hopelessly in love, without knowing why, notwithstanding his refined instincts, in spite of his reason, in spite, indeed, of his will. He had fallen into this love as one falls into a muddy hole. Of a tender and delicate disposition, he had dreamed of liaisons, exquisite, ideal, and impassioned, and there that little bit of a woman, stupid like all prostitutes, with an exasperating stupidity, not even pretty, but thin and a spitfire, had taken him prisoner, possessing him from head to foot, body and soul. He had submitted to this feminine witchery, mysterious and all powerful, this unknown power, this prodigious domination⁠—arising no one knows whence, but from the demon of the flesh⁠—which casts the most sensible man at the feet of some harlot or other without there being anything in her to explain her fatal and sovereign power.

And there at his back he felt that some infamous thing was brewing. Shouts of laughter cut him to the heart. What should he do? He knew well, but he could not do it.

He steadily watched an angler upon the bank opposite him, and his motionless line.

Suddenly, the worthy man jerked a little silver fish, which wriggled at the end of his line, out of the river. Then he endeavoured to extract his hook, pulled and turned it, but in vain. At last, losing patience, he commenced to tear it out, and all the bleeding gullet of the fish, with a portion of its intestines came out. Paul shuddered, rent to his heartstrings. It seemed to him that the hook was his love, and that if he should pluck it out, all that he had in his breast would come out in the same way at the end of a curved iron, fixed in the depths of his being, to which Madeleine held the line.

A hand was placed upon his shoulder; he started and turned; his mistress was at his side. They did not speak to each other; and like him she rested her elbows upon the railing, and fixed her eyes upon the river.

He tried to speak to her and could find nothing. He could not even disentangle his own emotions; all that he was sensible of was joy at feeling her there close to him, come back again, as well as shameful cowardice, a craving to pardon everything, to allow everything, provided she never left him.

At last, after a few minutes, he asked her in a very gentle voice:

“Would you like to go? It will be nicer in the boat.”

She answered: “Yes, darling.”

And he assisted her into the skiff, pressing her hands, all softened, with some tears still in his eyes. Then she looked at him with a smile and they kissed each other again.

They reascended the river very slowly, skirting the willow-bordered, grass-covered bank, bathed and still in the afternoon warmth. When they had returned to the Restaurant Grillon, it was barely six o’clock. Then leaving their boat they set off on foot towards Bezons, across the fields and along the high poplars which bordered the river. The long grass ready to be mowed was full of flowers. The sinking sun glowed from beneath a sheet of red light, and in the tempered heat of the closing day the floating exhalations from the grass, mingled with the damp scents from the river, filled the air with a soft languor, with a happy light, with an atmosphere of blessing.

A soft weakness overtook his heart, a species of communion with this splendid calm of evening, with this vague and mysterious throb of teeming life, with the keen and melancholy poetry which seems to arise from flowers and things, and reveals itself to the senses at this sweet and pensive time.

Paul felt all that; but for her part she did not understand anything of it. They walked side by side; and, suddenly, tired of being silent, she sang. She sang in her shrill, unmusical voice some street song, some catchy air, which jarred upon the profound and serene harmony of the evening.

Then he looked at her and felt an impassable abyss between them. She beat the grass with her parasol, her head slightly inclined, admiring her feet and singing, dwelling on the notes, attempting trills, and venturing on shakes. Her smooth little brow, of which he was so fond, was at that time absolutely empty! empty! There was nothing therein but this canary music; and the ideas which formed there by chance were like this music. She did not understand anything of him; they were now as separated as if they did not live together. Did his kisses never go any farther than her lips?

Then she raised her eyes to him and laughed again. He was moved to the quick and, extending his arms in a paroxysm of love, he embraced her passionately.

As he was rumpling her dress she finally broke away from him, murmuring by way of compensation as she did so:

“That’s enough. You know I love you, my darling.”

But he clasped her around the waist and, seized by madness, he started to run with her. He kissed her on the cheek, on the temple, on the neck, all the while dancing with joy. They threw themselves down panting at the edge of a thicket, lit up by the rays of the setting sun, and before they had recovered breath they were in one another’s arms without her understanding his transport.

They returned, holding each other by the hand, when, suddenly, through the trees, they perceived on the river the skiff manned by the four women. Fat Pauline also saw them, for she drew herself up and blew kisses to Madeleine. And then she cried:

“Until tonight!”

Madeleine replied: “Until tonight!”

Paul felt as if his heart had suddenly been frozen.

They reentered the house for dinner and installed themselves in one of the arbours, close to the water. They began to eat in silence. When night arrived, the waiter brought a candle enclosed in a glass globe, which gave a feeble and glimmering light; and they heard every moment the bursts of shouting from the boatmen in the large room on the first floor.

Toward dessert, Paul, taking Madeleine’s hand, tenderly said to her:

“I feel very tired, my darling; unless you have any objection, we will go to bed early.”

She, however, understood the ruse, and shot an enigmatical glance at him⁠—that glance of treachery which so readily appears in the depths of a woman’s eyes. Having reflected she answered:

“You can go to bed if you wish, but I have promised to go to the ball at La Grenouillère.”

He smiled in a piteous manner, one of those smiles with which one veils the most horrible suffering, and replied in a coaxing but agonized tone:

“If you were really nice, we should remain here, both of us.”

She indicated no with her head, without opening her mouth.

He insisted:

“I beg of you, my darling.”

Then she roughly broke out:

“You know what I said to you. If you are not satisfied, the door is open. No one wishes to keep you. As for myself, I have promised; I shall go.”

He placed his two elbows upon the table, covered his face with his hands, and remained there pondering sorrowfully.

The boat people came down again, shouting as usual, and set off in their vessels for the ball at La Grenouillère.

Madeleine said to Paul:

“If you are not coming, say so, and I will ask one of these gentlemen to take me.”

Paul rose:

“Let us go!” murmured he.

And they left.

The night was black, the sky full of stars, but the air was heat-laden by oppressive breaths of wind, burdened with emanations, and with living germs, which destroyed the freshness of the night. It offered a heated caress, made one breathe more quickly, gasp a little, so thick and heavy did it seem. The boats started on their way, bearing Venetian lanterns at the prow. It was not possible to distinguish the craft, but only the little coloured lights, swift and dancing up and down like frenzied glowworms, while voices sounded from all sides in the shadows. The young people’s skiff glided gently along. Now and then, when a fast boat passed near them, they could, for a moment, see the white back of the rower, lit up by his lantern.

When they turned the elbow of the river, La Grenouillère appeared to them in the distance. The establishment en fête, was decorated with flags and garlands of coloured lights, in grape-like clusters. On the Seine some great barges moved about slowly, representing domes, pyramids, and elaborate monuments in fires of all colours. Illuminated festoons hung right down to the water, and sometimes a red or blue lantern, at the end of an immense invisible fishing-rod, seemed like a great swinging star.

All this illumination spread a light around the café, lit up the great trees on the bank, from top to bottom, the trunks standing out in pale gray and the leaves in milky green upon the deep black of the fields and the heavens. The orchestra, composed of five suburban artists, flung far its public-house dance-music, poor of its kind and jerky, inciting Madeleine to sing anew.

She wanted to go in at once. Paul wanted first to take a stroll on the island, but he was obliged to give way. The attendance was now more select. The boatmen, almost alone, remained, with here and there some better class people, and young men escorted by girls. The director and organiser of this spree, looking majestic in a jaded black suit, walked about in every direction, bald-headed and worn by his old trade of purveyor of cheap public amusements.

Fat Pauline and her companions were not there; and Paul breathed again.

They danced; couples opposite each other capered in the maddest fashion, throwing their legs in the air, until they were upon a level with the noses of their partners.

The women, whose thighs seemed disjointed, pranced around with flying skirts which revealed their underclothing, wriggling their stomachs and hips, causing their breasts to shake, and spreading the powerful odour of perspiring female bodies.

The men squatted like toads, some making obscene gestures; some twisted and distorted themselves, grimacing and hideous; some turned cartwheels on their hands, or, perhaps, trying to be funny, posed with exaggerated gracefulness.

A fat servant-maid and two waiters served refreshments.

The café boat being only covered with a roof and having no wall whatever to shut it in, this harebrained dance flaunted in the face of the peaceful night and of the firmament powdered with stars.

Suddenly, Mont-Valérien, opposite, appeared, illumined, as if some conflagration had arisen behind it. The radiance spread and deepened upon the sky, describing a large luminous circle of white, wan light. Then something or other red appeared, grew greater, shining with a burning crimson, like that of hot metal upon the anvil. It gradually developed into a round body rising from the earth; and the moon, freeing herself from the horizon, rose slowly into space. As she ascended, the purple tint faded and became yellow, a shining bright yellow, and the satellite grew smaller in proportion as her distance increased.

Paul watched the moon for some time, lost in contemplation, forgetting his mistress; when he returned to himself the latter had vanished.

He sought her, but could not find her. He threw his anxious eye over table after table, going to and fro unceasingly, inquiring for her from one person and then another. No one had seen her. He was tormented with uneasiness, when one of the waiters said to him:

“You are looking for Madame Madeleine, are you not? She left a few moments ago, with Madame Pauline.” And at the same instant, Paul perceived the cabin-boy and the two pretty girls standing at the other end of the café, all three holding each other’s waists and lying in wait for him, whispering to one another. He understood, and, like a madman, dashed off into the island.

He first ran toward Chatou, but having reached the plain, retraced his steps. Then he began to search the dense coppices, occasionally roaming about distractedly, or halting to listen.

The toads all about him poured out their short metallic notes.

From the direction of Bougival, some unknown bird warbled a song which reached him faintly from the distance.

Over the broad fields the moon shed a soft light, resembling powdered wool; it penetrated the foliage, silvered the bark of the poplars, and riddled with its brilliant rays the waving tops of the great trees. The entrancing poetry of this summer night had, in spite of himself, entered into Paul, athwart his infatuated anguish, stirring his heart with ferocious irony, and increasing even to madness his craving for an ideal tenderness, for passionate outpourings on the breast of an adored and faithful woman. He was compelled to stop, choked by hurried and rending sobs.

The convulsion over, he went on.

Suddenly, he received what resembled the stab of a dagger. There, behind that bush, some people were kissing. He ran thither; and found an amorous couple whose faces were united in an endless kiss.

He dared not call, knowing well that She would not respond, and he had a frightful dread of coming upon them suddenly.

The flourishes of the quadrilles, with the earsplitting solos of the cornet, the false shriek of the flute, the shrill squeaking of the violin, irritated his feelings, and increased his suffering. Wild and limping music was floating under the trees, now feeble, now stronger, wafted hither and thither by the breeze.

Suddenly he thought that possibly She had returned. Yes, she had returned! Why not? He had stupidly lost his head, without cause, carried away by his fears, by the inordinate suspicions which had for some time overwhelmed him. Seized by one of those singular calms which will sometimes occur in cases of the greatest despair, he returned toward the ballroom.

With a single glance of the eye, he took in the whole room. He made the round of the tables, and abruptly again found himself face to face with the three women. He must have had a doleful and queer expression of countenance, for all three burst into laughter.

He made off, returned to the island, and threw himself into the coppice panting. He listened again, listened a long time, for his ears were singing. At last, however, he believed he heard farther off a little, sharp laugh, which he recognised at once; and he advanced very quietly, on his knees, removing the branches from his path, his heart beating so rapidly, that he could no longer breathe.

Two voices murmured some words, the meaning of which he did not understand, and then they were silent.

Then, he was possessed by a frightful longing to fly, to save himself, forever, from this furious passion which threatened his existence. He was about to return to Chatou and take the train, resolved never to come back again, never again to see her. But her likeness suddenly rushed in upon him, and he mentally pictured the moment in the morning when she would awake in their warm bed, and would press coaxingly against him, throwing her arms around his neck, her hair dishevelled, and a little entangled on the forehead, her eyes still shut and her lips apart ready to receive the first kiss. The sudden recollection of this morning caress filled him with frantic recollections and the maddest desire.

The couple began to speak again; and he approached, stooping low. Then a faint cry rose from under the branches quite close to him. He advanced again, in spite of himself, irresistibly attracted, without being conscious of anything⁠—and he saw them.

If her companion had only been a man. But that! that! He felt as though he were spellbound by the very infamy of it. And he stood there astounded and overwhelmed, as if he had discovered the mutilated corpse of one dear to him, a crime against nature, a monstrous, disgusting profanation. Then, in an involuntary flash of thought, he remembered the little fish whose entrails he had felt being torn out! But Madeleine murmured: “Pauline!” in the same tone in which she had often called him by name, and he was seized by such a fit of anguish that he turned and fled.

He struck against two trees, fell over a root, set off again, and suddenly found himself near the rapid branch of the river, which was lit up by the moon. The torrent-like current made great eddies where the light played upon it. The high bank dominated the stream like a cliff, leaving a wide obscure zone at its foot where the eddies could be heard swirling in the darkness.

On the other bank, the country seats of Croissy could be plainly seen.

Paul saw all this as though in a dream; he thought of nothing, understood nothing, and all things, even his very existence, appeared vague, far-off, forgotten, and closed.

The river was there. Did he know what he was doing? Did he wish to die? He was mad. He turned, however, toward the island, toward Her, and in the still air of the night, in which the faint and persistent burden of the music was borne up and down, he uttered, in a voice frantic with despair, bitter beyond measure, and superhumanly low, a frightful cry:

“Madeleine!”

His heartrending call shot across the great silence of the sky, and sped over the horizon. Then with a tremendous leap, with the bound of a wild animal, he jumped into the river. The water rushed on, closed over him, and from the place where he had disappeared a series of great circles started, enlarging their brilliant undulations, until they finally reached the other bank. The two women had heard the noise of the plunge. Madeleine drew herself up and exclaimed:

“It is Paul,”⁠—a suspicion having arisen in her soul⁠—“he has drowned himself”; and she rushed toward the bank, where Pauline rejoined her.

A clumsy punt, propelled by two men, turned round and round on the spot. One of the men rowed, the other plunged into the water a great pole and appeared to be looking for something. Pauline cried:

“What are you doing? What is the matter?”

An unknown voice answered:

“It is a man who has just drowned himself.”

The two haggard women, huddling close to each other, followed the manoeuvres of the boat. The music of La Grenouillère continued to sound in the distance, seeming with its cadences to accompany the movements of the sombre fishermen; and the river which now concealed a corpse, whirled round and round, illuminated. The search was prolonged. The horrible suspense made Madeleine shiver all over. At last, after at least half an hour, one of the men announced:

“I have got him.”

And he pulled up his long pole very gently, very gently. Then something large appeared upon the surface. The other boatman left his oars, and by uniting their strength and hauling upon the inert weight, they succeeded in getting it into their boat.

Then they made for land, seeking a place well lighted and low. At the moment they landed, the women also arrived. The moment she saw him, Madeleine fell back with horror. In the moonlight he already appeared green, with his mouth, his eyes, his nose, his clothes full of slime. His fingers, closed and stiff, were hideous. A kind of black and liquid plaster covered his whole body. The face appeared swollen, and from his hair, plastered down by the ooze, there ran a stream of dirty water.

The two men examined him.

“Do you know him?” asked one.

The other, the Croissy ferryman, hesitated:

“Yes, it certainly seems to me that I have seen that head; but you know when a body is in that state one cannot recognize it easily.” And then, suddenly:

“Why, it’s Mr. Paul!”

“Who is Mr. Paul?” inquired his comrade.

The first answered:

“Why, Mr. Paul Baron, the son of the senator, the little chap who was so much in love.”

The other added, philosophically:

“Well, his fun is ended now; it is a pity, all the same, when one is rich!”

Madeleine had fallen on the ground sobbing. Pauline approached the body and asked:

“Is he really quite dead?”

The men shrugged their shoulders.

“Oh! after that length of time, certainly.”

Then one of them asked:

“Was it not at Grillon’s that he lodged?”

“Yes,” answered the other; “we had better take him back there, there will be something to be made out of it.”

They embarked again in their boat and set out, moving off slowly on account of the rapid current. For a long time after they were out of sight of the place where the women remained, the regular splash of the oars in the water could be heard.

Then Pauline took the poor weeping Madeleine in her arms, petted her, embraced her for a long while, and consoled her.

“How can you help it? it is not your fault, is it? It is impossible to prevent men from doing silly things. He did it of his own free will; so much the worse for him, after all!”

And then lifting her up:

“Come, my dear, come and sleep at the house; it is impossible for you to go back to Grillon’s tonight.”

And she embraced her again, saying: “Come, we will cure you.”

Madeleine arose, and weeping all the while but with fainter sobs, laid her head upon Pauline’s shoulder, as though she had found a refuge in a closer and more certain affection, more familiar and more confiding, and she went off slowly.

Madame Tellier’s Establishment

An Adventure in Paris

Is there any stronger feeling than curiosity in a woman? Fancy seeing, knowing, touching what one has dreamed about! What would a woman not do for that? Once a woman’s eager curiosity is roused, she will be guilty of any folly, commit any imprudence, venture upon anything, and recoil from nothing. I am speaking of women who are really women, who are endowed with that triple-bottomed disposition, which appears to be reasonable and cool on the surface, but whose three secret compartments are filled as follows: The first, with female uneasiness, which is always in a state of fluttering; the next, with sly tricks which are coloured with an imitation of good faith, with the sophistical and formidable wiles of apparently devout women; and the last, with all those charming, improper acts, with that delightful deceit, exquisite perfidy, and all those wayward qualities which drive lovers who are stupidly credulous to suicide, but delight others.

The woman whose adventure I am about to relate was a little person from the provinces, who had been insipidly respectable till then. Her life, which was apparently so calm, was spent at home, with a busy husband and two children, whom she brought up like an irreproachable woman. But her heart beat with unsatisfied curiosity and unknown longing. She was continually thinking of Paris, and read the fashionable papers eagerly. The accounts of parties, of the dresses and various entertainments, excited her longing; but, above all, she was strangely agitated by those paragraphs which were full of double meaning, by those veils which were half raised by clever phrases, and which gave her a glimpse of culpable and ravishing delights, and from her home in the provinces she saw Paris in an apotheosis of magnificent and corrupt luxury.

During the long nights, when she dreamed, lulled by the regular snores of a husband, sleeping on his back by her side, with a silk handkerchief tied round his head, she saw in her sleep those well-known men whose names appeared regularly on the first page of the newspapers like stars in the dark sky. She pictured to herself their lives⁠—continual excitement, constant debauches, orgies such as they practised in ancient Rome, which were horribly voluptuous, with refinements of sensuality so complicated, that she could not even imagine them.

The boulevards seemed to her to be a kind of abyss of human passions, and there could be no doubt that the houses there concealed mysteries of prodigious love. But she felt that she was growing old, without having known life, except in those regular, horribly monotonous, everyday occupations which constitute the happiness of the home. She was still pretty, for she was well preserved by a tranquil existence, like winter fruit in a closed cupboard; but she was consumed, agitated and upset by her secret desires. She used to ask herself whether she should die without having experienced any of those damning, intoxicating joys, without having plunged once, just once, into that flood of Parisian voluptuousness.

By dint of much perseverance, she paved the way for a journey to Paris, found a pretext, got some relatives to invite her, and as her husband could not go with her, she went alone. As soon as she arrived, she invented a reason for remaining for some days, or rather for some nights, if necessary, as she told him that she had met some friends who lived a little way out town.

And then she set out on a voyage of discovery. She went up and down the boulevards, without seeing anything except roving and licensed vice. She looked into the large cafés, and read the Agony Column of the Figaro, which every morning seemed to her like a tocsin, a summons to love. But nothing put her on the track of those orgies of actors and actresses; nothing revealed to her those temples of debauchery which opened, she imagined, at some magic word, like the cave in the Arabian Nights, or the catacombs in Rome, where the mysteries of a persecuted religion were secretly celebrated.

Her relatives, who were quite middle-class people, could not introduce her to any of those well-known men, of whose names her head was full; and in despair she was thinking of returning, when chance came to her aid. One day, as she was going along the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin, she stopped to look into a shop full of those coloured Japanese knickknacks, which attract the eye by their colour. She was looking at the grotesque little ivories, the tall vases of flaming enamel, and the curious bronzes, when she heard the shopkeeper inside dilating, with many bows, on the value of an enormous, potbellied, comical figure⁠—which was quite unique, he said⁠—to a little, bald-headed, grey-bearded man.

Every moment the shopkeeper repeated his customer’s name, which was a celebrated one, in a voice like a trumpet. The other customers, young women and well-dressed gentlemen, gave a swift and furtive but respectful glance at the celebrated writer, who was looking admiringly at the china figure. They were both equally ugly, as ugly as two brothers who had sprung from the same mother.

“To you the price will be a thousand francs, Monsieur Varin, and that is exactly what it cost me. I should ask anybody else fifteen hundred, but I think a great deal of literary and artistic customers, and have special prices for them. They all come to me, Monsieur Varin. Yesterday, Monsieur Busnach bought a large, antique goblet from me, and the other day I sold two candelabra like this (aren’t they beautiful?) to Monsieur Alexandre Dumas. If Monsieur Zola were to see that Japanese figure he would buy it immediately, Monsieur Varin.”

The author hesitated in perplexity, as he wanted to have the figure, but the price was above him, and he thought no more about being stared at than if he had been alone in the desert. She came in trembling, with her eyes fixed shamelessly upon him, and she did not even ask herself whether he were good-looking, elegant, or young. It was Jean Varin himself, Jean Varin. After a long struggle and painful hesitation, he put the figure down on to the table.

“No, it is too expensive,” he said.

The shopkeeper’s eloquence redoubled. “Oh! Monsieur Varin, too expensive? It is worth two thousand francs, if it is worth a sou.”

But the man of letters replied sadly, still looking at the figure with the enameled eyes: “I do not say it is not: but it is too expensive for me.”

And thereupon, she, seized by a kind of mad audacity, came forward and said: “What will you charge me for the figure?”

The shopkeeper, in surprise, replied: “Fifteen hundred francs, Madame.”

“I will take it.”

The writer, who had not even noticed her till that moment, turned round suddenly. He looked at her from head to foot, with half-closed eyes, observantly, and then he took in the details, as a connoisseur. She was charming, suddenly animated by the flame which had hitherto been dormant in her. And then, a woman who gives fifteen hundred francs for a knickknack is not to be met with every day.

But she was overcome by a feeling of delightful delicacy, and turning to him, she said in a trembling voice:

“Excuse me, Monsieur; no doubt I have been rather hasty, as perhaps you had not finally made up your mind.”

He, however, only bowed, and said: “Indeed I had, Madame.”

And she, filled with emotion, continued: “Well, Monsieur, if either today, or at any other time, you change your mind, you can have this Japanese figure. I only bought it because you seemed to like it.”

He was visibly flattered, and smiled. “I should much like to find out how you know who I am?” he said.

Then she told him how she admired him, and became quite eloquent as she quoted his works, and while they were talking, he rested his arms on a table and fixed his bright eyes upon her, trying to make out who and what she really was. But the shopkeeper, who was pleased to have that living puff of his goods, called out, from the other end of the shop: “Just look at this, Monsieur Varin; is it not beautiful?”

And then everyone looked round, and she almost trembled with pleasure at being seen talking so intimately with such a well-known man.

At last, however, intoxicated, as it were, by her feelings, she grew bold, like a general who is about to order an assault.

“Monsieur,” she said, “will you do me a great, a very great pleasure? Allow me to offer you this funny Japanese figure, as a souvenir from a woman who admires you passionately, and whom you have seen for ten minutes.”

He refused. She persisted, but still he resisted her offer, very much amused, and laughing heartily. But that only made her more obstinate, and she said: “Very well, then, I shall take it to your house immediately; where do you live?”

He refused to give her his address, but she got it from the shopkeeper, and when she had paid for her purchase, she ran out to take a cab. The writer went after her, as he did not wish to accept a present from a person whom he did not know. He reached her just as she was jumping into a vehicle, and getting in after her, he almost fell on top of her, as the cab gave a jolt. Then he sat down by her side, feeling very much annoyed.

It was no good for him to argue and to beg her; she showed herself intractable, and when they got to the door, she stated her conditions: “I will undertake not to leave this with you,” she said, “if you will promise to do all I want today.” And the whole affair seemed so funny to him that he agreed.

“What do you generally do at this time?” she asked him; and after hesitating for a few moments, he replied: “I generally go for a walk.”

“Very well, then, we will go to the Bois de Boulogne!” she said, in a resolute voice, and they started.

He was obliged to tell her the names of all the well-known women, pure or impure, with every detail about them⁠—their mode of life, their habits, their homes, and their vices; and when it was getting dusk, she said to him: “What do you do every day at this time?”

“I have some absinthe,” he replied, with a laugh.

“Very well, then, Monsieur,” she went on seriously; “let us go and have some absinthe.”

They went into a large café on the boulevard which he frequented, and where he met some of his colleagues, whom he introduced to her. She was half beside herself with pleasure, and kept saying to herself: “At last! At last!”

But time went on, and she asked: “Is it your dinner time?” To which he replied: “Yes.”

“Then, let us go and have dinner.”

When they left Bignon’s after dinner, she wanted to know what he did in the evening, and looking at her fixedly, he replied: “That depends; sometimes I go to the theatre.”

“Very well, then, let us go to the theatre.”

They went to the Vaudeville with a pass, thanks to him, and, to her great pride, the whole house saw her sitting by his side in the balcony stalls.

When the play was over, he gallantly kissed her hand, and said: “It only remains for me to thank you for this delightful day.”

But she interrupted him: “What do you do at this time, every night?”

“Why⁠—why⁠—I go home.”

She began to laugh, a little tremulous laugh: “Very well, Monsieur, let us go to your rooms.”

They did not say anything more. She shivered occasionally, from head to foot, feeling inclined to stay, and inclined to run away, but with a fixed determination, after all, to see it out to the end. She was so excited that she had to hold on to the bannister as she went upstairs, and he went on ahead of her, with a wax match in his hand.

As soon as they were in the room, she undressed herself quickly, and retired without saying a word, and then she waited for him, cowering against the wall. But she was as simple as it was possible for a provincial lawyer’s wife to be, and he was more exacting than a pasha with three tails, and so they did not at all understand each other.

At last, however, he went to sleep. The night passed, and the silence was only disturbed by the ticktack of the clock, while she, lying motionless, thought of her conjugal nights, and by the light of the Chinese lantern, she looked nearly heartbroken at the little fat man lying on his back, whose round stomach raised up the bedclothes, like a balloon filled with gas. He snored with the noise of a wheezy organ pipe, with prolonged snorts and comic chokings. His few hairs profited by his sleep to stand up in a very strange way, as if they were tired of having been fastened for so long to that pate, whose bareness they were trying to cover. And a thin stream of saliva ran from the corner of his half-opened mouth.

At last daylight appeared through the drawn blinds. She got up and dressed herself without making any noise, and had already half opened the door, when she made the lock creak, and he woke up and rubbed his eyes. He was some moments before he quite came to himself, and then, when he remembered all that had happened, he said:

“What! Are you going already?”

She remained standing, in some confusion, and then said, in a hesitating voice:

“Yes, of course; it is morning.”

Then he sat up, and said: “Look here, I have something to ask you, in my turn.” And as she did not reply, he went on: “You have surprised me most confoundedly since yesterday. Be open, and tell me why you did it all, for upon my word I cannot understand it in the least.”

She went close up to him, blushing like as if she had been a virgin, and said: “I wanted to know⁠—what⁠—what vice⁠—really was, and⁠—well⁠—well, it is not at all funny.”

And she ran out of the room, and downstairs into the street.

A number of sweepers were busy in the streets, brushing the pavements, the roadway, and sweeping everything on one side. With the same regular motion, the motion of mowers in a meadow, they pushed the mud in front of them in a semicircle. She met them in every street, like dancing puppets, walking automatically with a swaying motion, and it seemed to her as if something had been swept out of her; as if her overexcited dreams had been pushed into the gutter, or into the drain. So she went home, out of breath and very cold, and all that she could remember was the sensation of the motion of those brooms sweeping the streets of Paris in the early morning.

When she got into her room, she threw herself on to her bed, and cried.

A Christmas Eve Festival

I do not remember exactly what year it was.

For a whole month I had been hunting with the concentrated, savage joy that one has in a new passion.

I was in Normandy, at the house of a bachelor relative, Jules de Banneville, alone with him, a servant, a valet and a gamekeeper, in his manorial château.

The castle, an old, grey building surrounded with moaning pines and avenues of oak-trees, in which the wind howled, looked as if it had been deserted for centuries. The antique furniture was the only inhabitant of the spacious rooms and halls now closed, in which the people, whose portraits hung in a corridor as windy as avenues, used to receive their noble neighbours in solemn state.

We had taken shelter in the only habitable room, the kitchen, an immense kitchen, whose dim shadows were lit up when fresh wood was thrown into the vast fireplace. Then, every evening, after a cosy sleep in front of the fire, when our wet boots had steamed for some time, and our dogs, lying curled up between our legs, had dreamt of game and barked in their sleep, we used to go up to our room.

It was the only room that had been floored and plastered all over to keep out the mice. But it remained bare, having been simply whitewashed, with guns, whips, and hunting-horns hanging on the walls. And we used to slip into our beds shivering, in the two corners of that glacial chamber.

A mile away in front of the house precipitous cliffs fell down to the sea, and the powerful breath of the ocean day and night, made the great trees bend and sigh, made the roof and the weathercocks creak, and the whole building groan, as the wind entered through its loose slates, its wide chimneys, and its windows that would not shut.

It had been freezing hard that day and evening had come. We were going to sit down to dinner in front of the big fire where a hare and two partridges that smelt good, were roasting.

“It will be awfully cold going to bed tonight,” said my cousin, looking up.

“Yes, but there will be plenty of ducks tomorrow morning,” I replied indifferently.

The servant had set our plates at one end of the table and those of the servants at the other.

“Gentlemen, do you know it is Christmas Eve?” she asked.

We certainly did not; we never looked at the calendar.

“That accounts for the bells ringing all day,” said my companion. “There is midnight service tonight.”

“Yes, sir; but they also rang because old Fournel is dead.”

Fournel was an old shepherd, well known in the country. He was ninety-six years old and had never known a day’s sickness until a month ago, when he had taken cold by falling into a pool on a dark night. The next day he took to his bed, and had been declining ever since.

“If you like,” said my cousin, turning to me, “we will go and see these poor people after dinner.”

He referred to the old man’s family, consisting of his grandson, fifty-eight years old, and the latter’s wife, one year younger. His children had died years ago. They lived in a miserable hut on the right hand side, at the entrance of the village.

Perhaps it was the thought of Christmas in this solitude which put us in the humour for talking. As we sat alone we told each other stories of old Christmas Eves, of adventures on that joyful night, of past good fortunes, and of the surprises of the morning after, when one awoke to find oneself not alone, and made surprising discoveries.

In this fashion dinner was prolonged. We smoked innumerable pipes, and, seized by that cheerfulness of lonely men, that infectious gaiety which suddenly comes upon intimate friends, we talked without ceasing, searching for those memories, those confidences of the heart, which escape in such moments of expansion.

The servant, who had left us a long time, reappeared and said: “I’m going to Mass, sir.”

“So soon!” exclaimed my cousin.

“It is a quarter to twelve.”

“Let us go to church, too,” said Jules. “Midnight service in the country is very interesting.”

I agreed, and we set off, wrapped in our fur-lined hunting coats.

A biting cold stung our faces and made our eyes water. The sharp air cut one’s lungs and dried up one’s throat. The deep, clear, hard sky was teeming with stars which seemed paler in the frost. They did not shine like fire, but like stars of ice, shining icicles. In the distance on the hard, crisp earth we could hear the peasants’ clogs, and the little village bells ringing everywhere in the neighbourhood, throwing out their slender notes into the cold immensity of the night. The countryside was not asleep. Deceived by the noise cocks were crowing, and as we passed the stables we could hear the cattle moving, disturbed by the sounds of life.

As we neared the village Jules remembered the Fournels. “Here is their cabin,” he said; “let us go in.” He knocked repeatedly, but in vain. A neighbour who was going to church told us they had gone to Mass to pray for the old man.

“We shall see them on our way back,” said my cousin.

The waning moon stood on the edge of the horizon, like a sickle in the midst of innumerable seeds of light scattered into space. From every direction the dark countryside was dotted with dancing lights, all moving towards the pointed spire whose bell rang incessantly. In the farm yards planted with trees, in the shadowy fields these lights glimmered close to the ground. They were the lanterns with which the peasants lit the way for their wives, who were dressed in white bonnets and long black cloaks, and were followed by children whose eyes were still heavy with sleep as they walked hand in hand ahead through the night.

Through the open church door the lighted choir was visible. Around the simple nave stood a row of penny candles, and on the floor of a chapel to the left a plump Christ-child was represented in pink wax, lying on real straw, in the midst of pine branches.

The service began. The peasants bowed their heads, the women praying on their knees, and these simple folk, who had got up in the cold night, gazed deeply moved at this rudely painted image. They clasped their hands, impressed as well as frightened by the modest splendour of this puerile picture.

The cold air made the candles flicker. Jules said to me: “Let us leave. It is better outside.” While the prostrate peasants shivered through their devotions we went along the deserted road, and resumed our conversation. We had talked so long that the service was over when we came back to the village. A small ray of light filtered through the Fournels’ door.

“They are watching their dead. Let us go in and see these poor people,” said Jules. “They will be pleased.”

Some embers were dying out in the fireplace. The dark room, coated with dirt, its mouldy rafters brown with age, was filled with a stiffling smell of grilled blood pudding. In the centre of the large table, beneath which a bread bin had been built, taking up the whole length of it, a candle in a twisted iron candlestick sent up its acrid smoke to the ceiling from a mushroom-shaped wick. There the two Fournels were celebrating Christmas Eve alone. With the gloomy, sad, stupid expression of peasants, they were eating in solemn silence. In one dish, placed between them, was a huge piece of black pudding, giving forth a powerful odour. From time to time they cut a piece off, spread it on their bread and munched it slowly. When the man’s glass was empty, the woman would fill it out of an earthen jar containing cider.

They asked us to be seated and to “join them,” but at our refusal they continued to munch. After a few minutes’ silence Jules said:

“Well, Anthime, so your grandfather is dead!”

“Yes, sir, he died this afternoon.”

The woman snuffed the candle in silence and I for the want of something to say, added:

“He was quite old, was he not?”

“Oh, his time was up,” she answered; “he was no earthly use here.”

An invincible desire to see the corpse of this centenarian took possession of me and I asked to see him.

The two peasants suddenly became agitated and exchanged questioning glances. Jules noticed this and insisted. Then the man with a sly, suspicious look, asked:

“What good would it do you?”

“No good,” said Jules; “but why will you not let us see him?”

“I am willing,” said the man, shrugging his shoulders, “but it is kind of inconvenient just now.”

We conjectured all sorts of things. Neither of them stirred. They sat there with eyes lowered, a sullen expression on their faces seeming to say: “Go away.”

“Come, Anthime, take us to his room,” said Jules with authority.

“It’s no use, sir, he isn’t there any more,” said the man sullenly.

“Where is he?” said Jules.

The woman interrupted, saying:

“You see, sir, we had no other place to put him so we put him in the bin until morning.” And having taken the top of the table off, she leaned over with the candle to light up the inside of the huge box, at the bottom of which we saw something grey, a kind of long package, from one end of which emerged a thin face with tousled grey hair, and from the other two bare feet. It was the old man, all shrivelled up, with closed eyes, rolled up in his shepherd’s cloak, and sleeping his last sleep among crusts of bread as ancient as himself.

His grandchildren had used as a table the bin which held his body!

Jules was indignant, and pale with anger, said:

“You scoundrels! Why did you not leave him in his bed?”

The woman burst into tears and speaking rapidly:

“You see, my good gentlemen, it’s just this way. We have but one bed, and being only three we slept together; but since he’s been so sick we slept on the floor. The floor is awful hard and cold these days, my good gentlemen, so when he died this afternoon we said to ourselves: ‘As long as he is dead he doesn’t feel anything and what’s the use of leaving him in bed? We can leave him in the bin until tomorrow, and get our bed back for this cold night.’ We can’t sleep with a dead man, my good gentlemen!⁠—now can we?”

Jules was exasperated and went out banging the door, and I followed him, laughing until my sides ached.

The Cake

We will call her Madame Anserre though it was not her real name.

She was one of those Parisian comets who leave a sort of trail of fire behind them. She wrote poetry and short stories, was sentimental and ravishingly beautiful. Her circle was small and consisted only of exceptional people⁠—those generally known as the kings of this, that, or the other. To be invited to her receptions stamped one as a person of intelligence; let us say that her invitations were appreciated for this reason. Her husband played the part of an obscure satellite: to be married to a star is no easy role. This husband had, however, a brilliant idea, that of creating a State within a State, of possessing some value in himself although only of secondary importance: he received on the same day as his wife did and had his special set who listened to him and appreciated his qualities, paying much more attention to him than they did to his brilliant companion.

He had devoted himself to agriculture, “armchair” agriculture, just as we have “armchair” generals⁠—all those who are born, live, and die in the comfortable surroundings of the War Office⁠—or “armchair” sailors⁠—look at the Admiralty⁠—or “armchair” colonisers, etc., etc. So he had studied agriculture seriously in its relation to the other sciences, with political economy and with the fine arts; we call everything art, even the horrible railway bridges are “works of art.” He had finally reached the stage when he was known as a clever man, he was quoted in the technical reviews, and his wife had succeeded in getting him appointed a member of a Commission at the Ministry of Agriculture.

He was satisfied with this modest glory. On the pretext of economy he invited his friends the same day his wife received hers, so that they all met each other, or rather they did not⁠—they formed two groups. Madame’s group of artists, academicians and Ministers gathered together in a kind of gallery which was furnished and decorated in Empire style. Monsieur generally retired with his “labourers” into a small room used as a smoking-room which Madame Anserre ironically described as the Salon of Agriculture.

The two camps were quite distinct. Monsieur, without any feeling of jealousy, sometimes ventured into the Academy, when cordial greetings were exchanged; but the Academy disdained intercourse with the Salon of Agriculture; it was indeed rare that one of the kings of science, of philosophy, of this, that, or the other mingled with the “labourers.”

These receptions were quite simple: nothing but tea and brioches were handed round. At first Monsieur had asked for two brioches, one for the Academy and one for the “labourers,” but, Madame having quite rightly suggested that that would be a recognition of two different camps, two receptions, two groups, Monsieur did not press the matter, so there was only one brioche, which Madame Anserre distributed first to the Academy, after which it passed into the Salon of Agriculture.

Now the brioche became a subject of strange and unexpected proceedings in the Academy. Madame Anserre never cut it herself. That task always fell to the lot of one or other of the illustrious guests. This particular function, much sought after and considered a special honour, was a privilege that might last for some time or might soon be over: it might last three months, for instance, but scarcely every longer, and it was noticed that the privilege of “cutting the brioche” carried with it other marks of superiority; it was a form of royalty, or, rather, very accentuated viceroyalty. The officiating cutter spoke with no uncertain voice, with a tone of marked command; and all the hostess’s favours were bestowed upon him, all.

These happy beings were described in intimate circles as “the favourites of the brioche,” and every change of favourite caused a sort of revolution in the Academy. The knife was a sceptre, the cake an emblem, and the elect received the congratulations of other members. The brioche was never cut by the “labourers,” Monsieur himself being always excluded, although he ate his share.

The cake was cut in succession by poets, by painters, and by novelists. A great musician measured out the portions for some time, and was succeeded by an Ambassador. Occasionally a guest of minor importance but distinguished and much sought after, one of those who are called, in different epochs, “real gentleman,” “perfect knight,” or “dandy,” and so forth, took his turn to cut the symbolic cake. Each one, during his short reign, showed the greatest consideration towards the lady’s husband, then when came the hour of his dismissal he passed the knife on to another and mingled again with the crowd of followers and admirers of the “beautiful Madame Anserre.”

This lasted a very long time, but comets do not always shine with the same brilliance. Everything in the world grows old, and it gradually looked as if the eagerness of the cutters were growing weaker; they seemed to hesitate when the cake was held out to them; this office once so much coveted became less sought after; it was held a shorter time and was considered with less pride by the holder. Madame Anserre was prodigal of smiles and amiability, but, alas! the cake was no longer willingly cut. Newcomers seemed to decline the honour, and old favourites reappeared one by one like dethroned kings temporarily replaced in power. Then the elected became very scarce indeed, and for a month, marvelous to relate, Monsieur Anserre cut the cake, then he looked as if he were getting tired of it, and one evening Madame Anserre, the beautiful Madame Anserre, was seen cutting it herself. But she seemed bored and the next day she insisted with such vehemence that the chosen guest dared not refuse.

However, the symbol was too well known; the guests stared at each other furtively with scared, anxious faces. To cut the brioche was nothing, but the privileges that accompanied this distinction now filled the chosen ones with terror, so that the minute the cake-dish appeared, the academicians made a rush for the Salon of Agriculture as it to shelter behind the husband, who was always smiling, and when Madame Anserre, in a state of anxiety, showed herself at the door, carrying the knife in one hand and the brioche in the other, they all gathered round her husband as if they were seeking his protection.

Some years passed and no one cut up the cake, but the old habit persisted and she who was still politely called “the beautiful Madame Anserre” looked out each evening for some devotee to take the knife, and each time the same stampede took place: there was a general flight, cleverly arranged and full of combined and skilful manoeuvres to avoid the offer that was rising to her lips.

But, one evening, a boy⁠—ignorant of the ways of the world and quite unsophisticated⁠—was introduced to the house. He knew nothing about the mystery of the brioche; therefore when it appeared and when the rest had all fled, and when Madame Anserre took the cake from the footman, he remained quietly by her side.

She may have thought that he knew all about it; she smiled and said in a voice full of feeling: “Will you be so kind as to cut this brioche, dear Monsieur?”

Flattered at the honour, he replied: “Certainly, Madame, with the greatest pleasure.”

In the distance⁠—in the corners of the gallery, in the open doorway of the Salon of Agriculture⁠—amazed faces were looking at him. Then, when the spectators saw the newcomer cutting the cake, they quickly came forward. An old poet jokingly slapped the neophyte on the shoulder and whispered: “Bravo, young man!”

The others gazed at him with curiosity and even Monsieur appeared surprised. As for the young man, he was astonished at the consideration he met with; above all, he failed to understand the marked attentions, the conspicuous favour, and the speechless gratitude of the mistress of the house.

Nevertheless, he eventually found out, though no one knew at what moment, in what place the revelation came to him, but when he appeared at the next reception he seemed preoccupied and half ashamed, and looked anxiously round the room. When the bell rang for tea and the footman appeared, Madame Anserre, with a smile, took the dish and looked round for her young friend, but he fled so precipitately that no trace of him could be found. Then she went off to look for him and discovered him at the end of the Salon of “labourers” holding her husband’s arm tightly and consulting him in an agonised manner as to the best method of destroying phylloxera.

“My dear Monsieur, will you be so kind as to cut up this brioche?” she said.

He blushed to the roots of his hair, stammered, and completely lost his head. Thereupon Monsieur Anserre took pity on him and, turning to his wife, said:

“My dear, it would be kind of you not to disturb us. We are discussing agriculture. Let Baptiste cut up the cake.”

Since that day no one has ever cut Madame Anserre’s brioche.

The Log

It was a small drawing room, with thick hangings, and with a faint aromatic smell of scent in the air. A large fire was burning in the grate, and one lamp, covered with a shade of old lace, on the corner of the mantelpiece threw a soft light on to the two persons who were talking.

She, the mistress of the house, was an old lady with white hair, one of those adorable old ladies whose unwrinkled skin is as smooth as the finest paper, and is scented, impregnated with perfume, the delicate essences used in the bath for so many years having penetrated through the epidermis. An old lady who, when one kisses her hand, smells of the delicate perfume which greets the nostrils, when a box of Florentine iris powder is opened.

He was a very old friend, who had never married, a constant friend, a companion in the journey of life, but nothing else.

They had not spoken for about a minute, and were both looking at the fire, dreaming of nothing in particular. It was one of those moments of sympathetic silence between people who have no need to be constantly talking in order to be happy together. Suddenly a large log, a stump covered with burning roots, fell out. It fell over the firedogs on to the drawing room floor, scattering great sparks all round. The old lady sprang up with a little scream, as if to run away, but he kicked the log back on to the hearth and trod out the burning sparks with his boots.

When the disaster was repaired, there was a strong smell of burning. Sitting down opposite to his friend, the man looked at her with a smile, and said, as he pointed to the log:

“That accident recalls the reason I never married.”

She looked at him in astonishment, with the inquisitive gaze of women who wish to know everything, eying him as women do who are no longer young, with intense and malicious curiosity. Then she asked:

“How so?”

“Oh! it is a long story,” he replied; “a rather sad and unpleasant story.

“My old friends were often surprised at the coldness which suddenly sprang up between one of my best friends, whose Christian name was Julien, and myself. They could not understand how two such intimate and inseparable friends as we had been could suddenly become almost strangers to one another. This is why we parted company.

“He and I used to live together at one time. We were never apart, and the friendship that united us seemed so strong that nothing could break it.

“One evening when he came home, he told me that he was going to be married, and it gave me a shock just as if he had robbed me or betrayed me. When a man’s friend marries, all is over between them. The jealous affection of a woman, a suspicious, uneasy, and carnal affection, will not tolerate that sturdy and frank attachment, that attachment of the mind and of the heart, and the mutual confidence which exist between two men.

“However great the love may be that unites them, a man and a woman are always strangers in mind and intellect; they remain belligerents, they belong to different races. There must always be a conqueror and a conquered, a master and a slave; now the one, now the other⁠—they are never equal. They press each other’s hands, hands trembling with amorous passion; but they never press them with a long, strong, loyal pressure, a pressure which seems to open hearts and to lay them bare in a burst of sincere, strong, manly affection. Wise men instead of marrying and bringing into the world, as a consolation for their old age, children who will abandon them, ought to seek a good, staunch friend, and grow old with him in that community of ideas which can exist only between two men.

“Well, my friend Julien married. His wife was pretty, charming, a light, curly-haired, plump, bright little woman, who seemed to worship him. At first I went but rarely to their house, as I was afraid of interfering with their affection, and averse to being in their way. But somehow they attracted me to their house; they were constantly inviting me, and seemed very fond of me. Consequently, by degrees I allowed myself to be allured by the charm of life with them. I often dined with them, and frequently, when I returned home at night, thought that I would do as he had done, and get married, as I found my empty house very dull. They seemed very much in love with one another, and were never apart.

“Well, one evening Julien wrote and asked me to go to dinner, and I went.

“ ‘My dear fellow,’ he said, ‘I must go out directly afterwards on business, and I shall not be back until eleven o’clock, but I shall not be later. Can I depend on you to keep Bertha company?’

“The young woman smiled.

“ ‘It was my idea,’ she said, ‘to send for you.’

“I held out my hand to her.

“ ‘You are as nice as ever,’ I said, and I felt a long, friendly pressure of my fingers, but I paid no attention to it. We sat down to dinner, and at eight o’clock Julien went out.

“As soon as he had gone, a kind of strange embarrassment immediately seemed to come over his wife and me. We had never been alone together yet, and in spite of our daily increasing intimacy, this tête-à-tête placed us in a new position. At first I spoke vaguely of those indifferent matters with which one fills up an embarrassing silence, but she did not reply, and remained opposite to me looking down in an undecided manner, as if thinking over some difficult subject. As I was at a loss for more commonplaces, I remained silent. It is surprising how hard it is at times to find anything to say. And then, again, I felt in the air, in my bones, so to speak, something which is impossible for me to express, that mysterious premonition which tells you beforehand of the secret intentions, be they good or evil, of another person with respect to yourself.

“The painful silence lasted some time, and then Bertha said to me:

“ ‘Will you kindly put a log on the fire, for it is going out.’

“So I opened the box where the wood was kept, which was placed just where yours is, took out the largest log, and put it on the top of the others, which were three-parts burned, and then silence reigned in the room again.

“In a few minutes the log was burning so brightly that it scorched our faces, and the young woman raised her eyes to me⁠—eyes that had a strange look to me.

“ ‘It is too hot now,’ she said; ‘let us go and sit on the sofa over there.’

“So we went and sat on the sofa, and then she said suddenly, looking me full in the face:

“ ‘What should you do if a woman were to tell you that she was in love with you?’

“ ‘Upon my word,’ I replied, very much at a loss for an answer, ‘I cannot imagine such a case; but it would very much depend upon the woman.’

“She gave a hard, nervous, vibrating laugh; one of those false laughs which seem as if they would break thin glasses, and then she added: ‘Men are never either audacious or clever.’ And after a moment’s silence, she continued: ‘Have you ever been in love, Monsieur Paul?’ I was obliged to acknowledge that I certainly had been, and she asked me to tell her all about it, whereupon I made up some story or other. She listened to me attentively with frequent signs of approbation or contempt, and then suddenly she said:

“ ‘No, you understand nothing about the subject. It seems to me that real love must unsettle the mind, upset the nerves, and distract the head; that it must⁠—how shall I express it?⁠—be dangerous, even terrible, almost criminal and sacrilegious; that it must be a kind of treason; I mean to say that it is almost bound to break laws, fraternal bonds, sacred obstacles; when love is tranquil, easy, lawful, and without danger, is it really love?’

“I did not know what answer to give her, and this philosophical reflection occurred to me: ‘Oh! female brain, here indeed you show yourself!’

“While speaking, she had assumed a demure, saintly air; and resting on the cushions, she stretched herself out at full length, with her head on my shoulder and her dress pulled up a little, so as to show her red silk stockings, which looked still brighter in the firelight. In a minute or two she continued:

“ ‘I suppose I have frightened you?’ I protested against such a notion, and she leaned against my breast altogether, and without looking at me she said: ‘If I were to tell you that I love you, what would you do?’

“And before I could think of an answer, she had thrown her arms round my neck, had quickly drawn my head down and put her lips to mine.

“My dear friend, I can tell you that I did not feel at all happy! What! deceive Julien?⁠—become the lover of this little, silly, wrongheaded, cunning woman, who was no doubt terribly sensual, and for whom her husband was already not sufficient! To betray him continually, to deceive him, to play at being in love merely because I was attracted by forbidden fruit, danger incurred and friendship betrayed! No, that did not suit me, but what was I to do? To imitate Joseph would be acting a very stupid and, moreover, difficult part, for this woman was maddening in her perfidy, inflamed by audacity, palpitating, and excited. Let the man who has never felt on his lips the warm kiss of a woman who is ready to give herself to him throw the first stone at me!

“Well, a minute more⁠—you understand what I mean? A minute more and⁠—I should have been⁠—no, she would have been⁠—I beg your pardon, he would have been⁠—when a loud noise made us both jump up. The log had fallen into the room, knocking over the fire-irons and the fender, as quick as a hurricane of flame, and was setting fire to the carpet. It came to a stop under an armchair which would certainly have caught fire.

“I jumped up like a madman, and as I was replacing the log on the fire, the door opened hastily, and Julien came in.

“ ‘I have done,’ he said, in evident pleasure. ‘The business was over two hours sooner than I expected!’

“Yes, my dear friend, without that log, I should have been caught in the very act, and you know what the consequences would have been! You may be sure that I took good care never to be caught again in a similar situation; never, never. Soon afterward I saw that Julien was giving me the ‘cold shoulder,’ as they say. His wife was evidently undermining our friendship; by degrees he got rid of me, and we have altogether ceased to meet.

“That is why I have not got married; it ought not to surprise you.”

Words of Love

“Sunday, ⸻

“My dear, big Darling:

“You do not write to me, I never see you, you never come. Have you ceased to love me? But why? What have I done? Pray tell me, my own dear love. I love you so much, so dearly! I should like always to have you near me, to kiss you all day while I call you every tender name that I could think of. I adore you, I adore you, I adore you, my beautiful cock.

“Monday.

“My Dear Friend:

“You will understand absolutely nothing of what I am going to say to you, but that does not matter, and if my letter happens to be read by another woman, it may be profitable to her.

“Had you been deaf and dumb, I should no doubt have loved you for a very long time, and the cause of what has happened is that you can talk; that is all. As the poet says:

“ ‘Tu n’as jamais été dans tes jours les plus rares
Qu’un banal instrument sous mon archet vainqueur
Et comme un air qui sonne au bois creux des guitares,
J’ai fait chanter mon rêve au vide de ton coeur.’

“In love, you see, dreams are always made to sing, but in order that they may do so, they must not be interrupted, and when one talks between two kisses, one always interrupts that frenzied dream which our souls indulge in, that is, unless one utter sublime phrases; and sublime phrases do not come out of the little heads of pretty girls.

“You do not understand me at all, do you? So much the better; I will go on. You are certainly one of the most charming and adorable women I have ever seen.

“Are there any eyes on earth that contain more dreams than yours, more unknown promises, greater depths of love? I do not think so. And when that mouth of yours, with its two curved lips, smiles and shows your beautiful shining teeth, one is tempted to say that from this ravishing mouth will come ineffable music, something inexpressibly delicate, a sweetness which provokes tears.

“It is then that you calmly call me ‘my big sweetheart.’ And suddenly I can see right inside your head, can see your soul, the little soul of a pretty little woman⁠ ⁠… and that embarrasses me, you know; it embarrasses me very much. I would prefer not to see it.

“You still do not understand, do you? I thought you would not.

“Do you remember the first time you came to see me at my house? You stepped inside quickly in a cloud of perfume of violets from your clothes. We looked at each other, for ever so long, without uttering a word, after which we embraced madly⁠ ⁠… then⁠ ⁠… we did not speak until morning.

“But when we separated, our trembling hands and our eyes said many things, things which cannot be expressed in any language. At least, I thought so; and when you went away, you murmured:

“ ‘We shall meet again soon!’

“That was all you said, and you will never guess what delightful dreams you left me, all that I, as it were, caught a glimpse of, all that I fancied I could guess in your thoughts.

“You see, my poor child, for men who are not stupid, who are rather refined and somewhat superior, love is such a complicated instrument that the merest trifle puts it out of order. You women never perceive the ridiculous side of certain things when you love, and you fail to see the grotesqueness of some expressions.

“Why does a word which sounds quite right in the mouth of a small, dark woman seem quite wrong and funny in the mouth of a fat, light-haired woman? Why are the wheedling ways of the one altogether out of place in the other?

“Why is it that certain caresses which are delightful from the one should be wearisome from the other? Why? Because in everything, and especially in love, perfect harmony⁠—absolute agreement in motion, voice, words, and in demonstrations of tenderness, is necessary in the person who moves, speaks, and manifests affection; harmony is necessary in age, in height, in the colour of the hair, and in the style of beauty.

“If a woman of thirty-five, who has arrived at the age of violent tempestuous passion, were to preserve the slightest traces of the roguish playfulness of her love affairs at twenty, were not to understand that she ought to express herself differently, look at her lover differently and kiss him differently, were not to see that she ought to be a Dido and not a Juliet, she would infallibly disgust nine lovers out of ten, even if they could not account to themselves for their estrangement. Do you understand me? No? I hoped so.

“From the time that you gave rein to your tenderness, it was all over for me, my dear friend. Sometimes we would embrace for five minutes, in one interminable kiss, one of those kisses which make lovers close their eyes, lest part of it should escape through their looks, as if to preserve it entire in the clouded soul which it is ravaging. And then, when our lips separated, you would say to me:

“ ‘That was nice, you dear old duck.’

“At such moments, I could have beaten you; for you gave me successively all the names of animals and vegetables which you doubtless found in La Cuisinière bourgeoise, La Parfait jardinier, and Les Éléments d’histoire naturalle à l’usage des classes inférieures. But even that did not matter.

“The caresses of love are brutal, bestial, and if one comes to think of it, grotesque!

“Musset says:

“ ‘Je me souviens encor de ces spasmes terribles,
De ces baisers muets de ces muscles ardents,
De cet être absorbé, blême et serrant les dents.
S’ils ne sont pas divins, ces moments sont horribles.7

“Oh! My poor child, what joking elf, what perverse sprite could have prompted your words⁠ ⁠… afterwards? I have made a collection of them, but out of love for you, I will not show them to you.

“And sometimes you really said things which were quite inopportune. For instance you managed now and then to let out an exalted I love you! on such singular occasions that I was obliged to restrain a strong desire to laugh. There are times when the words I love you! are so out of place that they become indecorous; let me tell you that.

“But you do not understand me, and many other women also will not understand me, but think me stupid, though that matters very little to me. Hungry men eat like gluttons, but people of refinement are disgusted at it and often feel an invincible dislike for a dish, on account of a mere trifle. It is the same with love, as with cookery.

“What I cannot comprehend for example is that certain women who fully understand the irresistible attraction of fine, embroidered silk stockings, the exquisite charm of shades, the witchery of valuable lace concealed in the depths of their most intimate garments, the exciting savour of hidden luxury, of the flimsiest and most delicate underclothing, and all the subtle delicacies of female elegance, never understand the invincible disgust with which words that are out of place, or foolishly tender, inspire us.

“At times coarse and brutal expressions work wonders, as they excite the senses and make the heart beat, and they are allowable at the hours of combat. Is not that word of Cambronne’s sublime?

“Nothing shocks us that comes at the right time; but then, we must also know how to hold our tongue, and to avoid phrases in the manner of Paul de Kock, at certain moments.

“And I embrace you passionately, on the condition that you say nothing.

Marroca

You ask me, my dear friend, to send you my impressions, and an account of my love affairs in this Africa to which I have so long been attracted. You laughed a great deal beforehand at my dusky sweethearts, as you called them, and you could see me returning to France followed by a tall, ebony-coloured woman, with a yellow silk handkerchief round her head, and wearing voluminous bright-coloured clothes.

No doubt the Moorish dames will have their turn, for I have seen several who made me feel very much inclined to fall in love with them. But by way of making a beginning, I came across something better, and very original.

In your last letter to me, you say: “When I know how people love in a country, I know that country well enough to describe it, although I may never have seen it.” Let me tell you, then, that here they love furiously. From the very first moment one feels a sort of trembling ardour, an excitement, a sudden tension of desire, a thrill running down to the very tips of the fingers, which overexcites one’s amorous powers and faculties of physical sensation, from the simple contact of the hands down to that unmentionable need which makes us commit so many follies.

Do not misunderstand me. I do not know whether what you call love of the heart, love of the soul, whether sentimental idealism, Platonic love, in a word, can exist on this earth; I doubt it, myself. But that other love, sensual love, which has something good, a great deal of good in it, is really terrible in this climate. The heat, the burning atmosphere which makes you feverish, the suffocating blasts of wind from the south, waves of fire from the desert which is so near us, that oppressive sirocco which is more destructive and withering than fire, a perpetual conflagration of an entire continent, burned even to its stones by a fierce and devouring sun, inflame the blood, excite the flesh, and make brutes of us.

But to come to my story. I shall not dwell on the beginning of my stay in Algeria. After visiting Bona, Constantine, Biskra, and Setif, I went to Bougie through the defiles of Chabet, by a wonderful road through Kabyle forests, which follows the sea at a height of six hundred feet above it and leads to that wonderful bay of Bougie, which is as beautiful as that of Naples, of Ajaccio, or of Douarnenez, which are the most lovely I know. I except from my comparison that incredible Bay of Oporto, enclosed with red granite, the dwelling place of those fantastic and sanguinary stone giants, called the Calanchas of Piana, on the western coast of Corsica.

Far away in the distance, before one rounds the large inlet where the water is perfectly calm, one sees Bougie. It is built on the steep sides of a high hill covered with trees, and forms a white spot on that green slope; it might almost be taken for the foam of a cascade falling into the sea.

I had no sooner set foot in that small, delightful town, than I knew that I should stay for a long time. In all directions the eye rests on rugged, strangely shaped hilltops, so close together that you can hardly see the open sea, so that the gulf looks like a lake. The milky blue water is wonderfully transparent, and the azure sky, a deep azure, as if it had received two coats of colour, expands its wonderful beauty above it. They seem to be looking at themselves in a glass, a veritable reflection of each other.

Bougie is a town of ruins, and on the quay is such a magnificent ruin that you might imagine you were at the opera. It is the old Saracen Gate, overgrown with ivy, and there are ruins in all directions on the hills round the town, fragments of Roman walls, bits of Saracen monuments, and remains of Arabic buildings.

I had taken a small, Moorish house, in the upper town. You know those dwellings, which have been described so often. They have no windows on the outside; but they are lighted from top to bottom by an inner court. On the first floor, they have a large, cool room, in which one spends the days, and terrace on the roof, on which one spends the nights.

I at once fell in with the custom of all hot countries, that is to say, of taking a siesta after lunch. That is the hottest time in Africa, the time when one can scarcely breathe; when the streets, the fields, and the long, dazzling, white roads are deserted, when everyone is asleep, or at any rate, trying to sleep, attired as scantily as possible.

In my drawing room, which had columns of Arabic architecture, I had placed a large, soft couch, covered with a carpet from Djebel Amour. There, very nearly in the costume of Assan, I sought to rest, but I could not sleep, as I was tortured by continence. There are two forms of torture on this earth which I hope you will never know: the want of water, and the want of women, and I do not know which is the worse. In the desert, men would commit any infamy for the sake of a glass of clean, cold water, and what would one not do in some of the towns of the littoral for a nice fresh, healthy, woman? There is no lack of girls in Africa; on the contrary, they abound, but, to continue my comparison, they are as unwholesome as the muddy water in the pools of Sahara.

Well, one day, when I was feeling more enervated than usual, I was trying in vain to close my eyes. My legs twitched as if they were being pricked, and I tossed about uneasily on my couch. At last, unable to bear it any longer, I got up and went out. It was a terribly hot day, in the middle of July, and the pavement was hot enough to bake bread on. My shirt, which immediately became soaked with perspiration, clung to my body; and all along the horizon there was a slight, white vapour, the burning mist of the sirocco which looked like palpable heat.

I went down to the sea, and circling the port, walked along the shore of the pretty bay where the baths are. The rugged mountain, covered with brushwood, with tall aromatic plants with a powerful perfume, encloses this creek, and all along the water’s edge rise huge brown rocks. There was nobody about, and nothing was stirring; not a sound of bird or of beast was to be heard, the very waves did not lap, and the sea appeared to be asleep in the sun. But in the burning air I thought I heard a noise like the roar of a fire.

Suddenly, behind one of the rocks, which were half covered by the silent water, I heard a slight movement. Turning round, I saw a tall, naked girl, sitting up to her bosom in the water, taking a bath; no doubt she reckoned on being alone at that hot period of the day. Her head was turned toward the sea, and she was moving gently up and down, without seeing me.

Nothing could be more surprising than that picture of a beautiful woman in the water, which was as clear as crystal, under a blaze of light. She was a marvellously beautiful woman, tall, and modelled like a statue. She turned round, uttered a cry, and half swimming, half walking, hid herself altogether behind her rock. I knew she must necessarily come out, so I sat down on the beach and waited. Presently, she just showed her head, which was covered with thick black plaits of hair. She had a rather large mouth, with full lips, large, bold eyes, and her skin, which was tanned by the climate, looked like a piece of old, hard, polished ivory, the lovely skin of a white woman tinted by the Negroes’ sun.

She called out to me: “Go away!” and her full voice, which corresponded to her strong build, had a guttural accent. As I did not move, she added: “It is not right of you to stop there, Monsieur.” Her r’s rolled in her mouth like chariot wheels. I did not move, however, and her head disappeared. Ten minutes passed, and then her hair, then her forehead, and then her eyes reappeared, but slowly and prudently, as if she were playing at hide-and-seek, and were looking to see who was near. This time she was furious, and called out: “You will make me catch a chill, for I shall not come out as long as you are there.” Thereupon, I got up and went away, but not without looking round several times. When she thought I was far enough off, she came out of the water. Bending down and turning her back to me, she disappeared in a cavity of the rock, behind a skirt that was hanging up in front of it.

I went back the next day. She was bathing again, but she had a bathing costume and she began to laugh, and showed her white teeth. A week later we were friends, and in another week we were more than that. Her name was Marroca, and she pronounced it as if there were a dozen r’s in it. She was the daughter of Spanish colonists, and had married a Frenchman, whose name was Pontabèze. He was a civil servant, though I never exactly knew what his functions were. I found out that he was always very busy, and I did not care for anything else.

She then altered her bathing hour, and came to my house every day, to take her siesta there. What a siesta! It could hardly be called resting! She was a splendid girl, of a somewhat animal but superb type. Her eyes were always glowing with passion; her half-open mouth, her sharp teeth, and even her smiles, had something ferociously loving about them; and her curious, long rigid breasts, like pointed pears of flesh, and as supple as though a steel spring controlled them, gave her whole body something of the animal, made her a sort of inferior yet magnificent being, a creature destined for unbridled love, and roused in me the idea of those ancient deities who gave expression to their tenderness on the grass and under the trees.

Never was a woman consumed by such insatiable passion. Her ecstatic ardours, and delirious embraces, in which she clenched her teeth, bit, and quivered convulsively, were followed immediately by lassitude as profound as death. But she would suddenly awake in my arms, eager for further kisses, her bosom swelling with desire.

Her mind, however, was as simple as two and two are four, and a sonorous laugh served her instead of thought.

Instinctively proud of her beauty, she hated the slightest covering, and ran and frisked about my house with daring and unconscious immodesty. When she was at last satiated with love, and worn out by her cries and movements, she used to sleep soundly and peacefully by my side on the couch, while the overwhelming heat brought out minute spots of perspiration on her brown skin and brought out from beneath her arms, thrown backwards under her head, and from all the secret corners of her body, that feminine odour which the male loves.

Sometimes she returned in the evening, when her husband was on duty somewhere, and we used to lie on the terrace, scarcely covered by some fine, gauzy, Oriental fabric. When the full bright moon of the tropics lit up the town and the gulf, with its surrounding frame of hills, we saw on all the other terraces a recumbent army of silent phantoms, who would occasionally get up, change their places, and lie down again, in the languorous warmth of the starry night.

In spite of the brightness of African nights, Marroca would insist upon stripping herself almost naked in the clear rays of the moon; she did not trouble herself much about anybody who might see us, and often, in spite of my fears and entreaties, she uttered long, resounding cries, which made the dogs in the distance howl.

One night, when I was sleeping under the starry sky, she came and kneeled down on my carpet, and putting her lips, which curled slightly, close to my face, she said:

“You must come and sleep at my house.”

I did not understand her, and asked:

“What do you mean?”

“Yes, when my husband has gone away you must come and take his place.”

I could not help laughing, and said: “Why, since you come here?”

And she went on, almost talking into my mouth, sending her hot breath into my throat, and moistening my moustache with her lips:

“I want it as a remembrance.”

Still I did not grasp her meaning. Then she put her arms round my neck and said: “When you are no longer here, I shall think of it and when I kiss my husband I shall fancy it is you.” As she spoke, her r’s rolled their familiar thunder.

I was touched and amused at the same time and replied: “You must be mad. I would much rather stop here.”

As a matter of fact, I have no liking for assignations under the conjugal roof; they are mousetraps, in which the unwary are always caught. But she begged and prayed, and even cried, and at last said: “You shall see how I will love you there.”

And those r’s sounded like the rattle of a drum sounding a charge.

Her wish seemed so strange that I could not explain it to myself; but on thinking it over, I thought I could discern a profound hatred for her husband, the secret vengeance of a woman who takes a pleasure in deceiving him, and who, moreover, wishes to deceive him in his own house, between his own sheets, in his own bed.

“Is your husband very unkind to you?” I asked her. She looked vexed, and said:

“Oh, no, he is very kind.”

“But you are not fond of him?”

She looked at me with astonishment in her large eyes. “Indeed, I am very fond of him, very; but not so fond as I am of you, my darling.”

I could not understand it at all, and while I was trying to get at her meaning, she pressed one of those kisses, whose power she knew so well, on to my lips, and whispered: “But you will come, will come, will you not?”

I resisted, however, and so she got up immediately, and went away; nor did she come back for a week. On the eighth day she came back, stopped gravely on the threshold of my room, and said: “Are you coming to my house tonight? If you refuse, I shall go away.”

Eight days is a very long time, my friend, and in Africa those eight days are as good as a month. “Yes,” I said, and opened my arms, and she threw herself into them.

At night she waited for me in a neighbouring street, and took me to their house, which was very small, and near the harbour. I first of all went through the kitchen, where they had their meals, and then into a very tidy, whitewashed room, with photographs on the walls and paper flowers under a glass case. Marroca seemed beside herself with pleasure, and she jumped about and said: “There, you are at home, now.” And I certainly acted as though I were. I felt rather embarrassed, I admit, and somewhat uneasy.

As I was hesitating, in this strange house, to divest myself of a certain garment, without which a man, when he is taken unawares, looks as awkward as he is ridiculous and incapable of action, she snatched it off, and carried off into another room the cloak of my modesty, along with all my other clothes.

I recovered my courage in the end, and proved it to the best of my ability, with such success that, when two hours had passed, we still had no thoughts of sleep, when suddenly a loud knocking at the door made us start, and a man’s voice called out: “Marroca, it is I.”

She started: “My husband! Here, hide under the bed, quickly.”

I was distractedly looking for my trousers, but she gave me a push, and panted out: “Go on, go on.”

I lay down flat on my stomach, and without a word crept under the bed where I had been so comfortable, while she went into the kitchen. I heard her open a cupboard and then shut it again, and she came back into the room carrying some object which I could not see, but which she quickly put down. Then, as her husband was getting impatient, she said, calmly: “I cannot find the matches.” Suddenly she added: “Oh, here they are; I will come and let you in.”

The man came in, and I could see nothing of him but his feet, which were enormous. If the rest of him was in proportion, he must have been a giant.

I heard kisses, a little pat on her naked flesh, and a laugh, and he said, in a strong Marseilles accent: “I forgot my purse, so I was obliged to come back; you were sound asleep, I suppose.”

He went to the cupboard, and was a long time in finding what he wanted; and as Marroca had thrown herself on to the bed, as if she were tired out, he went up to her, and no doubt tried to caress her, for she flung a volley of angry r’s at him. His feet were so close to me that I felt a stupid, inexplicable longing to catch hold of them, but I restrained myself. When he saw that he could not succeed in his wish, he got angry, and said: “You are not at all nice, tonight. Goodbye, dear.”

I heard another kiss, then the big feet turned, and I saw the nails in the soles of his shoes as he went into the next room, the front door was shut, and I was saved!

I came slowly out of my retreat, feeling rather humiliated and miserable, and while Marroca, who was still undressed, danced a jig round me, shouting with laughter, and clapping her hands, I threw myself heavily into a chair. But I jumped up with a bound, for I had sat down on something cold, and as I was no more dressed than my accomplice was, the contact made me start. I looked round. I had sat down on a small hatchet, used for cutting wood, and as sharp as a knife. How had it got there? I had certainly not seen it when I went in; but Marroca seeing me jump up, nearly choked with laughter, and coughed with both hands on her sides.

I thought her amusement rather out of place; we had risked our lives stupidly, I still felt a cold shiver down my back, and I was rather hurt at her foolish laughter.

“Supposing your husband had seen me?” I said.

“There was no danger of that,” she replied.

“What do you mean? No danger? That is a good joke! If he had stooped down, he would have seen me.”

She did not laugh any more, she only looked at me with her large eyes, which were bright with merriment.

“He would not have stooped.”

“Why?” I persisted. “Just suppose that he had let his hat fall, he would have been sure to pick it up, and then⁠—I was well prepared to defend myself, in this costume!”

She put her two strong, round arms about my neck, and, lowering her voice, as she did when she said “I adorre you,” she whispered:

“Then he would never have got up again.”

I did not understand her, and said: “What do you mean?”

She gave me a cunning wink, and put out her hand towards the chair on which I had sat down, and her outstretched hands, her smile, her half-open lips, her white, sharp, and ferocious teeth, all drew my attention to the little hatchet, the sharp blade of which was glistening. While she put out her hand as if she were going to take it, she put her left arm round me, and drawing me to her, and pressing her thigh against mine, with her right arm she made a motion as if she were cutting off the head of a kneeling man!

This, my friend, is the manner in which people here understand conjugal duties, love, and hospitality!

The Shepherd’s Leap

High cliffs, perpendicular as a wall, skirt the seafront between Dieppe and Havre. In a depression in the cliffs, here and there, one sees a little narrow gulch with steep sides covered with short grass and gorse, which descends from the cultivated tableland toward a shingly beach, where it ends in a depression like the bed of a torrent. Nature made those valleys; the rainstorms created those depressions in which they terminate, wearing away what remained of the cliff, and channeling as far as the sea the bed of the stream.

Sometimes a village lies concealed in these gulches, into which the wind rushes straight from the open sea.

I spent a summer in one of these coast valleys with a peasant, whose house, facing the waves, enabled me to see from my window a huge triangular sweep of blue water framed by the green slopes of the valley, and lighted up in places by white sails passing in the distance in the sunlight.

The road leading towards the sea ran through the further end of the defile, abruptly passed between two chalk cliffs, became a sort of deep gulley before opening on a beautiful carpet of smooth pebbles, rounded and polished by the immemorial caress of the waves.

This steep gorge was called the “Shepherd’s Leap.”

Here is the drama which originated this name.

The story goes that this village was at one time ruled by an austere and violent young priest. He left the seminary filled with hatred toward those who lived according to natural laws, and did not follow the laws of his God. Inflexibly severe on himself, he displayed merciless intolerance toward others. One thing above all stirred him up with rage and disgust⁠—love. If he had lived in cities in the midst of the civilized and the refined, who conceal the brutal dictates of nature behind delicate veils of sentiment and tenderness, if he had heard the confessions of perfumed sinners in some vast cathedral nave, in which their guilt was softened by the grace of their fall and the idealism surrounding material kisses, he would not perhaps have felt those fierce revolts, those inordinate outbursts of anger that took possession of him when he witnessed the vulgar misconduct of some rustic pair in a ditch or in a barn.

He likened them to brutes, these people who knew nothing of love and who simply paired like animals; and he hated them for the coarseness of their souls, for the foul way in which they appeased their instincts, for the repulsive merriment exhibited even by old men when they happened to talk about these unclean pleasures.

Perhaps, too, he was tortured, in spite of himself, by the pangs of appetites which he had refrained from satiating, and secretly troubled by the struggle of his body in its revolt against a spirit despotic and chaste. But everything that had reference to the flesh filled him with indignation, made him furious; and his violent sermons, full of threats and indignant allusions, caused the girls to titter and the young fellows to cast sly glances at them across the church; while the farmers in their blue blouses and their wives in their black mantles, said to each other on their way home from Mass before entering their houses, from the chimney of each of which ascended a thin blue film of smoke:

“He does not joke abont the matter, Mo’sieu’ the Curé!”

On one occasion, and for very slight cause, he flew into such a passion that he lost his reason. He went to see a sick woman. As soon as he reached the farmyard, he saw a crowd of children, those of the house as well and some of their friends, gathered around a dog’s kennel. They were staring curiously at something, standing there motionless, with concentrated, silent attention. The priest walked towards them. It was a dog and her litter of puppies. In front of the kennel five little puppies were swarming around their mother, who was affectionately licking them, and at the moment when the curé stretched forward his head above the heads of the children, a sixth tiny pup was born. All the brats, seized with joy at the sight of it, began to bawl out, clapping their hands: “Here’s another of them! Here’s another of them!”

To them it was a pleasure, a natural pleasure, into which nothing impure entered; they gazed at the birth of the puppies just as they would have looked at apples falling from trees. But the man with the black robe was quivering with indignation, and, losing his head, he lifted up his big blue umbrella and began to beat the youngsters. They retreated at full speed. Then, finding himself left alone with the animal, he proceeded to beat her also. As in her condition she was unable to run way she moaned while she struggled against his attack, and jumping on top of her, he crushed her under his feet, and with a few kicks with his heel finished her off. Then he left the body bleeding in the midst of the newborn animals, whining and helpless and instinctively making efforts to get at the mother’s teats.

He would take long walks, all alone, with a frown on his face. Now, one evening in May, as he was returning from a place some distance away, and going along by the cliff to get back to the village, a fierce shower of rain impeded his progress. He could see no house in sight, only the bare coast on every side riddled by the pelting downpour.

The rough sea dashed against him in masses of foam; and thick black clouds gathering at the horizon redoubled the rain. The wind whistled, blew great guns, battered down the growing crops, and the dripping Abbé; filling his ears with noises, and exciting his heart with its tumult.

He took off his hat, exposing his forehead to the storm, and by degrees approached the descent towards the lowland. But he had such a rattling in his throat that he could not advance farther, and, all of a sudden, he espied near a sheep pasture, a shepherd’s hut, a kind of movable box on wheels that the shepherds can drag in summer from pasture to pasture.

Above a wooden stool, a low door was open, affording a view of the straw inside.

The priest was on the point of entering to take shelter when he saw a loving couple embracing each other in the shadow. Thereupon, he abruptly closed the door and fastened it; then, getting the shafts, he bent his lean back and dragged the hut after him, like a horse. And thus he ran along in his drenched cassock toward the steep incline, the fatal incline, with the young couple he had caught together, who were banging their fists against the door of the hut, believing probably that the whole thing was only the practical joke of a passerby.

When he got to the top of the descent, he let go of the frail structure, which began to roll over the sloping side of the cliff. It then rolled down precipitately, carried along blindly, ever increasing in the speed of its course, leaping, stumbling like an animal, striking the ground with its shafts.

An old beggar, cuddled up in a gap near the cliff, saw it passing, with a rush above his head, and he heard dreadful cries coming from the interior of this wooden box.

Suddenly a wheel fell off from a collision with some stone; and then the hut, falling on one side, began to topple downward like a ball, like a house torn from its foundations, and tumbling down from the top of a mountain; and then, having reached the edge of the last depression it turned over, describing a curve in its fall, and was broken like an egg, at the bottom of the cliff.

The pair of lovers were picked up, bruised, battered, with all their limbs fractured, but still clasped in each other’s arms, but now through terror.

The curé refused to admit their corpses into the church or to pronounce a benediction over their coffins. And on the following Sunday in his sermon he spoke vehemently about the Seventh Commandment, threatening the lovers with an avenging and mysterious arm, and citing the terrible example of the two wretches killed in the midst of their sin.

As he was leaving the church, two gendarmes arrested him.

A coastguard who was in a sentry-box had seen him.

The priest was sentenced to a term of penal servitude.

And the peasant who told me the story added gravely:

“I knew him, Monsieur. He was a rough man, that’s a fact, but he did not like fooling.”

The Bed

On a stifling afternoon during last summer, the large auction rooms seemed asleep, and the auctioneers were knocking down the various lots in a listless manner. In a back room, on the first floor, two or three lots of all silk ecclesiastical vestments were lying in a corner.

They were copes for solemn occasions, and graceful chasubles on which embroidered flowers surrounded symbolic letters on a yellowish ground, which had originally been white. Some secondhand dealers were there, two or three men with dirty beards, and a fat woman with a big stomach, one of those women who deal in secondhand finery and manage illicit love affairs, women who are brokers in old and young human flesh, just as much as they are in new and old clothes.

Presently, a beautiful Louis XV chasuble, as pretty as the dress of a marquise, was put up for sale. It had retained all its colours, and was embroidered with lilies of the valley round the cross, and long blue irises, which came up to the foot of the sacred emblem, and with wreaths of roses in the corners. When I had bought it, I noticed that there was a faint scent about it, as if it were permeated with the remains of incense, or still pervaded by those delicate, sweet scents of bygone years, which we like, the memory of a perfume, the soul of an evaporated essence.

When I got it home, I wished to have a small chair of the same charming period covered with it; and as I was handling it in order to take the necessary measures, I felt some paper beneath my fingers.

When I cut the lining, some letters fell at my feet. They were yellow with age, and the faint ink was the colour of rust; outside the sheets, which were folded in the fashion of long ago, it was addressed in a delicate hand “To Monsieur l’Abbé d’Argence.”

The first three letters merely settled places of meeting, but here is the third:

“My Friend⁠—I am very unwell, ill in fact, and I cannot leave my bed. The rain is beating against my windows, and I lie dreaming comfortably and warmly under my eiderdown coverlet. I have a book of which I am very fond, that seems as if a little of myself were in it. Shall I tell you what it is? No, for you would only scold me. Then, when I have read a little, I think, and will tell you what about.

“They have put behind me pillows which keep me up and I am writing you on the lovely little desk you gave me.

“Having been in bed for three days, I think about my bed, and even in my sleep I meditate on it still. I have come to the conclusion that the bed encircles our whole life; for we are born in it, we live in it and we shall die in it. If, therefore, I had Monsieur de Crébillon’s pen, I should write the history of a bed, and what exciting and terrible, as well as delightful and moving adventures would not such a book contain! What lessons and what subjects for moralising could not one draw from it, for everyone?

“You know my bed, my friend, but you will never guess how many things I have discovered in it within the last three days, and how much more I love it, in consequence. It seems to me to be inhabited, haunted, if I may say so, by a number of people I never thought of, who, nevertheless, have left something of themselves in that couch.

“Ah! I cannot understand people who buy new beds, beds to which no memories or cares are attached. Mine, ours, which is so shabby, and so spacious, must have held many existences in it, from birth to the grave. Think of that, my friend; think of it all; review all those lives, a great part of which was spent between these four posts, surrounded by these hangings embroidered by human figures, which have seen so many things. What have they seen during the three centuries since they were first put up?

“Here is a young woman lying in this bed.

“From time to time she sighs, and then she groans and cries out; her mother is with her, and presently a little creature that makes a noise like a cat mewing, and which is all shriveled and wrinkled, appears. It is a male child to which she has given birth, and the young mother feels happy in spite of her pain; she is nearly suffocated with joy at that first cry, and stretches out her arms, and those around her shed tears of pleasure. For that little morsel of humanity which has come from her means the continuation of the family, the perpetuation of the blood, of the heart, and of the soul of the old people, who are looking on, trembling with excitement.

“And then, here are two lovers, who for the first time are together in that tabernacle of life. They tremble; but transported with delight, they have the delicious sensation of being close together, and by degrees their lips meet. That divine kiss makes them one, that kiss which is the gate of a terrestrial heaven, that kiss which speaks of human delights, which continually promises them, announces them, and precedes them. And their bed is agitated like the tempestuous sea, it bends and murmurs, and itself seems to become animated and joyous, for the maddening mystery of love is being accomplished on it. What is there sweeter, what more perfect in this world than those embraces which make one single being out of two, and which give to both of them at the same moment the same thought, the same expectation, and the same maddening pleasure, a joy which descends upon them like a celestial and devouring fire?

“Do you remember those lines which you read to me last year, from some old poet, I know not whom, perhaps it was gentle Ronsard?

Et quand au lit nous serons
Entrelacés, nous ferons
Les lascifs, selon les guises
Des amants qui librement
Pratiquent folâtrement
Sous les draps cent mignardises.8

I should like to have them embroidered on the top of my bed, where Pyramus and Thisbe are continually looking at me out of their tapestried eyes.

“And think of death, my friend, of all those who have breathed out their last sigh to God in this bed. For it is also the tomb of hopes ended, the door which closes everything, after having been the entrance to the world. What cries, what anguish, what sufferings, what groans; how many arms stretched out toward the past; what appeals to a happiness that has vanished forever; what convulsions, what death-rattles, what gaping lips and distorted eyes, have there not been in this bed from which I am writing to you, during the three centuries that it has sheltered human beings!

“The bed, you must remember, is the symbol of life; I have discovered this within the last three days. There is nothing good except the bed, and are not some of our best moments spent in sleep?

“But then, again, we suffer in bed! it is the refuge of those who are ill and suffering; a place of repose and comfort for worn-out bodies.

“The bed is man himself. Our Lord Jesus proved that he was superhuman by never needing a bed. He was born on straw and died on the Cross, leaving to us weak human creatures our soft bed of repose.

“Many other thoughts have struck me, but I have no time to note them down for you, and then, should I remember them all? Besides that I am so tired that I mean to shake up my pillows, stretch myself out at full length, and sleep a little. But be sure and come to see me at three o’clock tomorrow; perhaps I may be better, and able to prove it to you.

“Goodbye, my friend; here are my hands for you to kiss, and I also offer you my lips.”

Mademoiselle Fifi

Major, Count von Farlsberg, the Prussian commandant, had nearly finished reading his letters, lying back in a huge, tapestry-covered armchair, with his booted feet on the beautiful marble fireplace, where his spurs had made two holes, which grew deeper every day, during the three months that he had been in the château of Uville.

A cup of coffee was smoking on a small, inlaid table, which was stained with liqueurs, burnt by cigars, notched by the penknife of the victorious officer, who occasionally would stop while sharpening a pencil, to cut figures, make a drawing on the charming piece of furniture, just as it took his fancy.

When he had read his letters and run through the German newspapers, which his orderly had brought him, he got up, and after throwing three or four enormous pieces of green wood on to the fire, for these gentlemen were gradually cutting down the park for firewood⁠—he went to the window. The rain was descending in torrents, that Normandy rain, which looked as if it were being poured out by some furious hand, a slanting rain, thick as a curtain, which formed a sort of wall with diagonal stripes, and deluged everything, a regular rain, such as one frequently experiences in the neighbourhood of Rouen, which is the watering-pot of France.

For a long time the officer looked at the sodden lawns and at the swollen Andelle beyond, overflowing its banks; and he was drumming a Rhineland waltz on the windowpanes, with his fingers, when a noise made him turn round; it was his second in command, Baron von Kelweinstein, now holding the rank of captain.

The major was a giant, with broad shoulders, and a long, fair-like beard, that spread fan-shaped on his chest. His whole, tall person suggested the idea of a military peacock, a peacock who was carrying his tail spread out from his chin. He had cold, gentle, blue eyes, and one cheek had been slashed by a sabre in the war with Austria; he was said to be a good sort and a brave officer.

The captain, a short, red-faced man, with a big tight-belted stomach, had his fair hair cropped quite close to his head, and in certain lights he almost looked as if he had been rubbed over with phosphorus. He had lost two front teeth one festive night, though he could not quite remember how, and this made his speech so thick that he could not always be understood, and he had a bald patch on the top of his head, tonsured like a monk, with a fringe of curly, bright, golden hair round the circle of bare skin.

The commandant shook hands with him, and gulped down his cup of coffee (the sixth that morning), while he listened to his subordinate’s report of what had occurred; and then they both went to the window, and declared that things were not very lively. The major, who was a quiet man, with a wife at home, put up with everything; but the captain, a regular rake, a frequenter of low resorts, and very partial to women, was mad at having been shut up for three months in the compulsory chastity of that wretched hole.

There was a knock at the door, and when the commandant said: “Come in,” one of their automatons appeared, and his mere presence announced that lunch was ready. In the dining room, they met three junior officers: a lieutenant, Otto von Grossling, and two second lieutenants, Fritz Scheuneburg, and Marquis von Eyrick, a very short, fair-haired man, who was proud and brutal towards his men, harsh towards the conquered, and as explosive as a rifle.

Since their arrival in France, his comrades had called him nothing but Mademoiselle Fifi. They had given him that nickname on account of his dandified style and small waist, which looked as if he wore stays, of his pale face, on which his budding moustache scarcely showed, and on account of the habit he had acquired of employing the French expression, fi, fi donc, which he pronounced with a slight whistle, when he wished to express his sovereign contempt for persons or things.

The dining room of the château d’Uville was a magnificent long room, whose fine old mirrors, that were cracked by pistol bullets, and whose Flemish tapestry, which was cut to ribbons, and hanging in rags in places, from sword-cuts, told too well what Mademoiselle Fifi’s occupation was during his spare time.

There were three family portraits on the walls: a steel-clad knight, a cardinal, and a judge, who were all smoking long porcelain pipes, which had been inserted into holes in the canvas, while in her ancient, faded-gold frame, a noble dame, very tightly laced, proudly exhibited an enormous moustache, drawn with a piece of charcoal. The officers ate their lunch almost in silence in that mutilated room, which looked dull in the rain, and melancholy under its vanquished appearance, although its old, oak floor had become as solid as the stone floor of a tavern.

When they had finished eating, and were smoking and drinking they began, as usual, to talk about the dull life they were leading. The bottles of brandy and liqueurs passed from hand to hand, and all sat back in their chairs and took repeated sips from their glasses, scarcely removing from their mouths the long, bent stems with egg-shaped china bowls, that were painted in a manner to delight a Hottentot.

As soon as their glasses were empty, they filled them again, with a gesture of resigned weariness, but Mademoiselle Fifi broke his each time, and a soldier immediately gave him another. They were enveloped in a thick cloud of strong tobacco smoke, and they seemed to be sunk in a state of drowsy, stupid intoxication, in that dreary drunkenness of men who have nothing to do. Suddenly, the baron, stirred to revolt, sat up, and said: “By heavens! This cannot go on; we must think of something to do.” And on hearing this, lieutenant Otto and second lieutenant Fritz, who preeminently possessed the grave, heavy German countenance, said: “What, captain?”

He thought for a few moments, and then replied: “What? Well, we must get up a spree, if the commandant will allow us.” “What sort of a spree, captain?” the major asked, taking his pipe out of his mouth. “I will arrange all that, commandant,” the baron said. “I will send old ‘Duty’ to Rouen, to bring out some girls here. I know where they can be found. We will have supper here, as all the materials are at hand, and, at least, we shall have a jolly evening.”

Count von Farlsberg shrugged his shoulders with a smile: “You’re mad, my dear fellow.”

But all the other officers got up, and came crowding round their chief, with entreaties: “Do let him, sir! it is terribly dull here.” Finally the major yielded. “Very well,” he replied, and the baron immediately sent for “Duty.” He was an old noncommissioned officer, who had never been seen to smile, but who carried out all the orders of his superiors to the letter, no matter what they might be. He stood there, with an impassive face, while he received the baron’s instructions, and then went out. Five minutes later a large military wagon, with a hooped tarpaulin cover, galloped off as fast as four horses could take it, under the pouring rain. At once a revivifying thrill seemed to run through their minds; they stopped lounging, their faces brightened, and they began to talk.

Although it was raining as hard as ever, the major declared that it was not so dull, and Lieutenant von Grossling said with conviction, that the sky was clearing up, while Mademoiselle Fifi did not seem to be able to keep still. He got up, and sat down again, and his bright eyes seemed to be looking for something to destroy. Suddenly, looking at the lady with the moustache, the young fellow pulled out his revolver, and said: “You shall not see it.” And without leaving his seat he aimed, and with two successive bullets cut out both the eyes of the portrait.

“Let us make a mine!” he then exclaimed, and the conversation was suddenly interrupted, as if they had found some fresh and powerful subject of interest. The mine was his invention, his method of destruction, and his favorite amusement.

When he left the château, the lawful owner, Count Fernand d’Amoys d’Uville, had not had time to carry away or to hide anything, except the plate, which had been stowed away in a hole made in one of the walls, so that, as he was very rich and had good taste, the large drawing room, which opened into the dining room, had looked like the gallery in a museum, before his precipitate flight.

Expensive oil-paintings, water colours, and drawings hung against the walls, while on the tables, on the hanging shelves, and in elegant cabinets, there were a thousand knickknacks; small vases, statuettes, groups in Dresden china, and grotesque Chinese figures, old ivory, and Venetian glass, which filled the large room with their precious and fantastical array.

Scarcely anything was left now; not that the things had been stolen, for the major would not have allowed that, but Mademoiselle Fifi from time to time “made a mine,” and on those occasions all the officers thoroughly enjoyed themselves for five minutes. The little marquis went into the drawing room to get what he wanted, and he brought back a small, delicate and very valuable Chinese teapot, which he filled with gunpowder, and carefully introduced a piece of tinder into the spout. Then he lighted it, and took this infernal machine into the next room; but he came back immediately, and shut the door. The Germans all stood expectantly, their faces full of childish, smiling curiosity, and as soon as the explosion had shaken the château, they all rushed in at once.

Mademoiselle Fifi, who got in first, clapped his hands in delight at the sight of a terra-cotta Venus, whose head had been blown off at last, and each picked up pieces of porcelain, and wondered at the strange shape of the fragments, examining the latest damage, and disputing as to whether some of the havoc was not due to a previous explosion; while the major was looking with a paternal eye at the large drawing room, which had been wrecked in this Neronic fashion, and was strewn with the fragments of works of art. He went out first, and said, with a smile: “This time it was a great success!”

But there was such a cloud of smoke in the dining room, mingled with the tobacco smoke, that they could not breathe, so the commandant opened the window, and all the officers, who had gone into the room for a glass of cognac, went up to it.

The moist air blew into the room, with a scent of flooded country, and a powdering of rain that sprinkled their beards. They looked at the tall trees, which were dripping with the rain, at the broad valley, which was covered with a mist of dark, low-hanging clouds, and at the church spire in the distance, which rose up like a grey point in the beating rain.

The bells had not rung since their arrival. That was the only resistance which the invaders had met with in the neighbourhood. The parish priest had not refused to take in and to feed the Prussian soldiers; he had several times even drunk a bottle of beer or claret with the hostile commandant, who often employed him as a friendly intermediary; but it was no use to ask him for a single stroke of the bells; he would sooner have allowed himself to be shot. That was his way of protesting against the invasion, a peaceful and silent protest, the only one, he said, which was suitable to a priest, who was a man of peace, not war; and everyone, for ten miles around, praised the Abbé Chantavoine’s firmness and heroism, in venturing to proclaim the public mourning by the obstinate silence of his church bells.

The whole village grew enthusiastic over his resistance, and was ready to back up their pastor and to risk anything, as they looked upon that silent protest as the safeguard of the national honour. It seemed to the peasants that thus they had deserved better of their country than Belfort and Strasbourg, that they had set an equally valuable example, and that the name of their little village would become immortalized by that; but with that exception, they refused their Prussian conquerors nothing.

The commandant and his officers laughed among themselves at that inoffensive courage, and as the people in the whole country round showed themselves obliging and compliant towards them, they willingly tolerated their silent patriotism. Only the little Marquis Wilhelm would have liked to make the bell ring. He was very angry at his superior’s politic compliance with the priest’s scruples, and every day he begged the commandant to allow him to sound “ding-dong, ding-dong,” just once, only just once, just by way of a joke. And he asked it like a wheedling woman, in the tender voice of some mistress who wishes to obtain something, but the commandant would not yield, and to console himself Mademoiselle Fifi used to make a “mine” in the château d’Uville.

The five men stood there together for some minutes, inhaling the moist air, and at last, Lieutenant Fritz said, with a thick laugh: “The ladies will certainly not have fine weather for their drive.” Then they separated, each to his own duties, while the captain had plenty to do in seeing about the dinner.

When they met again, as it was growing dark, they began to laugh at seeing each other as dandified and smart as on the day of a grand review. The commandant’s hair did not look so grey as it was in the morning, and the captain had shaved, and had only kept his moustache on, which made him look as if he had a streak of fire under his nose.

In spite of the rain, they left the window open, and one of them went to listen from time to time, and at a quarter past six the baron said he heard a rumbling in the distance. They all rushed down, and soon the wagon drove up at a gallop with its four horses, which were splashed up to their backs, steaming and panting, and five women got out at the bottom of the steps, five handsome girls whom a comrade of the captain, to whom old “Duty” had taken his card, had selected with care.

They had not required much pressing, as they were sure of being well paid, for they had got to know the Prussians in the three months during which they had had to do with them, and so they resigned themselves to the men as they did the state of affairs. “It is all in the day’s work,” they said as they drove along; no doubt to allay some secret scruples of conscience which remained.

They went into the dining room immediately, which looked still more dismal in its dilapidated state, when it was lighted up; while the table, covered with choice dishes, the beautiful china and glass, and the plate, which had been found in the hole in the wall where its owner had hidden it, gave the look of a bandit’s inn, where they were supping after committing a robbery, to the place. The captain was radiant, and took hold of the women as if he were familiar with them; appraising them, kissing them, sniffing them, appraising their value as ladies of pleasure; and when the three young men wanted to appropriate one each, he opposed them authoritatively, reserving to himself the right to apportion them justly, according to their several ranks, so as not to violate the laws of precedence. Therefore, so as to avoid all discussion, jarring, and suspicion of partiality, he placed them all in a line according to height, and addressing the tallest, he said in a voice of command:

“What is your name?” “Pamela,” she replied, raising her voice. And then he said: “Number one, called Pamela, is adjudged to the commandant.” Then, having kissed Blondine, the second, as a sign of proprietorship, he proffered stout Amanda to Lieutenant Otto, Eva La Tomate, to Second Lieutenant Fritz, and Rachel the shortest of them all, a very young, dark girl, with eyes as black as ink, a Jewess, whose snub nose confirmed the rule which allots hooked noses to all her race, to the youngest officer, frail Count Wilhelm von Eyrick.

They were all pretty and plump, without any distinctive features, and all were very much alike in look and person, from their daily practice of love, and their life in common in brothels.

The three younger men wished to carry off their women immediately, under the pretext of finding them brushes and soap; but the captain wisely opposed this, for he said they were quite fit to sit down to dinner, and that those who went up would wish for a change when they came down, and so would disturb the other couples, and his experience in such matters carried the day. They contented themselves with many kisses, kisses of anticipation.

Suddenly Rachel choked, and began to cough until the tears came into her eyes, while smoke came through her nostrils. Under pretence of kissing her, the count had blown a whiff of tobacco into her mouth. She did not fly into a rage, and did not say a word, but she looked at her possessor with latent hatred in her dark eyes.

They sat down to dinner. The commandant seemed delighted; he made Pamela sit on his right, and Blondine on his left, and said, as he unfolded his table napkin: “That was a delightful idea of yours, Captain.”

Lieutenants Otto and Fritz, who were as polite as if they had been with fashionable ladies, rather intimidated their neighbours, but Baron von Kelweingstein gave rein to all his vicious propensities, beamed, made obscene remarks, and seemed on fire with his crown of red hair. He made gallant phrases in French from the other side of the Rhine, and his pothouse compliments sputtered out through the gap made by his broken teeth, reached the girls amid a volley of saliva.

They did not understand him, however, and their intelligence did not seem to be awakened until he uttered nasty words and broad expressions, which were mangled by his accent. Then they all began to shriek with laughter, falling into the laps of their neighbours and repeating the words, which the baron then began to say all wrong, in order that he might have the pleasure of hearing them say dirty things. They gave him as much of that stuff as he wanted, for they were drunk after the first bottle of wine, and, becoming themselves once more, and opening the door to their usual habits, they kissed the moustaches on the right and left of them, pinched the men’s arms, uttered furious cries, drank out of every glass, and sang French couplets, and bits of German songs, which they had picked up in their daily intercourse with the enemy.

Soon the men themselves, intoxicated by that female flesh which was displayed to their sight and touch, grew very amorous, shouted and broke the plates and dishes, while the soldiers behind them waited on them stolidly. The commandant was the only one who put any restraint upon himself.

Mademoiselle Fifi had taken Rachel on to his knees, and, getting deliberately excited, at one moment kissed the little black curls on her neck, inhaling the pleasant warmth of her body, and all the savour of her person, through the slight space there was between her dress and her skin, and at another he pinched her furiously through her dress, and made her scream, for he was seized by a species of ferocity, and tormented by his desire to hurt. He often held her close to him, as if to make her part of himself, and pressed his lips in a long kiss on the Jewess’s rosy mouth, until she lost her breath; but suddenly he bit her until a stream of blood ran down her chin and on to her bodice.

For the second time, she looked him full in the face, and as she bathed the wound, she said: “You will have to pay for that!” But he merely laughed a hard laugh, and said: “I will pay.”

At dessert, champagne was served, and the commandant rose, and in the same voice in which he would have drunk to the health of the Empress Augusta, he drank: “To our ladies!” And a series of toasts began, toasts worthy of the lowest soldiers and of drunkards, mingled with obscene jokes, which were made still more brutal by their ignorance of the language. They got up, one after another, trying to say something witty, forcing themselves to be funny, and the women, who were so drunk that they almost fell off their chairs, with vacant looks and clammy tongues, applauded madly each time.

The captain, who no doubt wished to impart an appearance of gallantry to the orgy, raised his glass again, and said: “To our victories over hearts!” And thereupon Lieutenant Otto, who as a species of bear from the Black Forest, jumped up, inflamed and saturated with drink, and suddenly seized by an excess of alcoholic patriotism, he cried: “To our victories over France!”

Drunk as they were, the women were silent, and Rachel turned round with a shudder, and said: “Look here, I know some Frenchmen, in whose presence you would not dare to say that.” But the little count, still holding her on his knee, began to laugh, for the wine had made him very merry, and said: “Ha! ha! ha! I have never met any of them, myself. As soon as we show ourselves, they run away!” The girl, who was in a terrible rage, shouted into his face: “You are lying, you dirty scoundrel!”

For a moment, he looked at her steadily with his bright eyes upon her, as he had looked at the portrait before he destroyed it with revolver bullets, and then he began to laugh: “Ah! yes, talk about them, my dear! Should we be here now, if they were brave?” And getting excited, he exclaimed: “We are the masters! France belongs to us!”

She jumped off his knees with a bound, and threw herself into her chair, while he rose, held out his glass over the table, and repeated: “France and the French, the woods, the fields, and the houses of France belong to us!”

The others, who were quite drunk, and who were suddenly seized by military enthusiasm, the enthusiasm of brutes, seized their glasses, and shouting: “Long live Prussia!” they emptied them at a draught.

The girls did not protest, for they were reduced to silence, and were afraid. Even Rachel did not say a word, as she had no reply to make, and then, the little marquis put his champagne glass, which had just been refilled, on to the head of the Jewess, and exclaimed: “All the women in France belong to us, also!”

At that, she got up so quickly that the glass upset and poured the amber-coloured wine on to her black hair as if to baptise her, and broke into a hundred fragments, as it fell on to the floor. With trembling lips, she defied the looks of the officer who was still laughing, and she stammered out, in a voice choked with rage: “That⁠ ⁠… that⁠ ⁠… that⁠ ⁠… is not true⁠ ⁠… for you shall certainly not have any French women.”

He sat down again, so as to laugh at his ease, and trying ineffectually to speak with a Parisian accent, he said: “That is good, very good! Then, what did you come here for, my dear?” She was thunderstruck, and made no reply for a moment, for in her agitation she did not understand him at first; but as soon as she grasped his meaning, she said to him indignantly and vehemently: “I! I! I am not a woman; I am only a strumpet, and that is all that Prussians want.”

Almost before she had finished, he slapped her full in the face; but as he was raising his hand again, as if he would strike her, she, almost mad with passion, took up a small dessert knife with a silver blade from the table, and stabbed him in the neck, just above the breast bone. Something that he was going to say was cut short in his throat, and he sat there, with his mouth half open, and a terrible look in his eyes.

All the officers shouted in horror, and leaped up noisily; but throwing her chair between Lieutenant Otto’s legs, who fell down at full length, she ran to the window, opened it before they could seize her, and jumped out into the night and pouring rain.

In two minutes, Mademoiselle Fifi was dead, and Fritz and Otto drew their swords and wanted to kill the women, who threw themselves at their feet and clung to their knees. With some difficulty the major stopped the slaughter, and had the four terrified girls locked up in a room under the care of two soldiers, and then he organised the pursuit of the fugitive, as carefully as if they were about to engage in a skirmish, feeling quite sure that she would be caught. Fifty men, spurred on by threats, were sent to search the park. Two hundred more scoured the woods, and all the houses in the valley.

The table, which had been cleared immediately, now served as a deathbed, and the four officers stood at the windows, rigid and sobered, with the stern faces of soldiers on duty, and tried to pierce through the darkness of the night, amid the steady torrent of rain. Suddenly, a shot was heard, and then another, a long way off; and for four hours they heard from time to time near or distant reports and rallying cries strange words uttered as a call, in guttural voices.

In the morning they all returned. Two soldiers had been killed, and three others wounded by their comrades in the ardour of that chase, and in the confusion of that night pursuit, but they had not caught Rachel.

Then the inhabitants of the district were terrorised, the houses were turned topsy-turvy, the country was scoured and beaten up, over and over again, but the Jewess did not seem to have left a single trace of her passage behind her.

When the general was told of it, he gave orders to hush up the affair, so as not to set a bad example to the army, but he severely censured the commandant, who in turn punished his inferiors. The general had said: “One does not go to war in order to amuse oneself, and to caress prostitutes.” And Count von Farlsberg, in his exasperation, made up his mind to have his revenge on the district, but as he required a pretext for showing severity, he sent for the priest, and ordered him to have the bell tolled at the funeral of the Marquis von Eyrick.

Contrary to all expectation, the priest showed himself humble and most respectful, and when Mademoiselle Fifi’s body left the Château d’Uville on its way to the cemetery, carried by soldiers, preceded, surrounded, and followed by soldiers, who marched with loaded rifles, for the first time, the bell sounded its funereal knell in a lively manner, as if a friendly hand were caressing it. At night it sounded again, and the next day, and every day; it rang as much as anyone could desire. Sometimes even, it would start at night, and sound gently through the darkness, seized by strange joy, awakened, one could not tell why. All the peasants in the neighbourhood declared that it was bewitched, and nobody, except the priest and the sacristan, would now go near the church tower, and they went because a poor girl was living there in grief and solitude, and secretly nourished by those two men.

She remained there until the German troops departed, and then one evening the priest borrowed the baker’s cart, and himself drove his prisoner to Rouen. When they got there, he embraced her, and she quickly went back on foot to the establishment from which she had come, where the proprietress, who thought that she was dead, was very glad to see her.

A short time afterwards, a patriot who had no prejudices, and who liked her because of her bold deed, and who afterwards loved her for herself, married her, and made a lady of her, who was quite as good as many others.

Relics of the Past

My dear Colette⁠—I do not know whether you remember a verse of M. Sainte-Beuve which we have read together, and which has remained fixed in my memory; for me this verse speaks eloquently; and it has very often reassured my poor heart, especially for some time past. Here it is:

“To be born, to live, and die in the same house.”

I am now all alone in this house where I was born, where I have lived, and where I hope to die. It is not gay every day, but it is pleasant; for there I have souvenirs all around me.

My son Henri is a barrister; he comes to see me twice a year. Jeanne is living with her husband at the other end of France, and it is I who go to see her each autumn. So here I am, all, all alone, but surrounded by familiar objects which incessantly speak to me about my own people, the dead, and the living separated from me by distance.

I no longer read much; I am too old for that; but I am constantly thinking, or rather dreaming. I do not dream as I used to do long ago. You may recall to mind any wild fancies, the adventures our brains concocted when we were twenty, and all the horizons of happiness that dawned upon us!

Nothing out of all our dreaming has been realized, or rather it is quite a different thing that has happened, less charming, less poetic, but sufficient for those who know how to accept their lot in this world bravely.

Do you know why we women are so often unhappy? It is because we are taught in our youth to believe too much in happiness! We are never brought up with the idea of fighting, of striving, of suffering. And, at the first shock, our hearts are broken; we look forward, with blind faith, to cascades of fortunate events. What does happen is at best but a partial happiness, and thereupon we burst out sobbing. Happiness, the real happiness that we dream of, I have come to know what that is. It does not consist in the arrival of great bliss, for any great bliss that falls to our share is to be found in the infinite expectation of a succession of joys to which we never attain. Happiness is happy expectation; it is the horizon of hope; it is, therefore, endless illusion; and, old as I am, I create illusions for myself still, in fact, every day I live; only their object is changed, my desires being no longer the same. I have told you that I spend my brightest hours in dreaming. What else should I do?

I have two ways of doing this. I am going to tell you what they are; they may perhaps prove useful to you.

Oh! the first is very simple; it consists in sitting down before my fire in a low armchair made soft for my old bones, and looking back at the things that have been put aside.

One life is so short, especially a life entirely spent in the same spot:

“To be born, to live, and die in the same house.”

The things that bring back the past to our recollection are heaped, pressed together; and, we are old, it sometimes seems no more than ten days since we were young. Yes; everything slips away from us, as if life itself were but a single day: morning, evening, and then comes night⁠—a night without a dawn!

When I gaze into the fire, for hours and hours, the past rises up before me as though it were but yesterday. I no longer think of my present existence; reverie carries me away; once more I pass through all the changes of my life.

And I often am possessed by the illusion that I am a young girl, so many breaths of bygone days are wafted back to me, so many youthful sensations and even impulses, so many throbbings of my young heart⁠—all the passionate ardor of eighteen; and I have clear, as fresh realities, visions of forgotten things. Oh! how vividly, above all, do the memories of my walks as a young girl come back to me! There, in the armchair of mine, before the fire, I saw once more, a few nights since, a sunset on Mont Saint-Michel, and immediately afterwards I was riding on horseback through the forest of Uville with the odors of the damp sand and of the flowers steeped in dew, and the evening star sending its burning reflection through the water and bathing my face in its rays as I galloped through the copse. And all I thought of then, my poetic enthusiasm at the sight of the boundless sea, my keen delight at the rustling of the branches as I passed, my most trivial impressions, every fragment of thought, desire, or feeling, all, all came back to me as if I were there still, as if fifty years had not glided by since then, to chill my blood and moderate my hopes. But my other way of reviving the long ago is much better.

You know, or you do not know, my dear Colette, that we destroy nothing in the house. We have upstairs, under the roof, a large room for cast-off things which we call “the lumber-room.” Everything which is no longer used is thrown there. I often go up there, and gaze around me. Then I find once more a heap of nothings that I had ceased to think about, and that recalled a heap of things to my mind. They are not those beloved articles of furniture which we have known since our childhood and to which are attached recollections of events of joys or sorrows, dates in our history, which, from the fact of being intermingled with our lives, have assumed a kind of personality, a physiognomy, which are the companions of our pleasant or gloomy house, the only companions, alas! that we are sure not to lose, the only ones that will not die, like the others⁠—those whose features, whose loving eyes, whose lips, whose voices, have vanished forever. But I find instead among the medley of worn-out gewgaws those little old insignificant objects which have hung on by our side for forty years without ever having been noticed by us, and which, when we suddenly lay eyes on them again, have somehow the importance, the significance of relics of the past. They produce on my mind the effect of those people⁠—whom we have known for a very long time without ever having seen them as they really are, and who, all of a sudden, some evening, quite unexpectedly, break out into a stream of interminable talk, and tell us all about themselves down to their most hidden secrets, of which we had never even suspected the existence.

And I move about from one object to the other with a little thrill in my heart every time something fixes my attention. I say to myself: “See there! I broke that the night Paul started for Lyons”; or else, “Ah! there is mamma’s little lantern, which she used to carry with her going to her evening devotions on dark winter nights.” There are even things in this room which have no story to tell me, which have come down from my grandparents, things therefore, whose history and adventures are utterly unknown to those who are living today, and whose very owners nobody knows now. Nobody has seen the hands that used to touch them or the eyes that used to gaze at them. These are the things that make me have long, long dreams. They represent to my mind desolate people whose last remaining friend is dead. You, my dear Colette, can scarcely comprehend all this, and you will smile at my simplicity, my childish, sentimental whims. You are a Parisian, and you Parisians do not understand this interior life, those eternal echoes of one’s own heart. You live in the outer world, with all your thoughts in the open. Living alone as I do, I can only speak about myself. When you are answering this letter, tell me a little about yourself, that I may also be able to put myself in your place, as you will be able to put yourself in mine tomorrow.

But you will never completely understand M. de Sainte Beuve’s verse:

“To be born, to live, and to die in one house.”

The Blind Man

Why is the first sunshine so delightful? Why does the light falling upon the earth fill us so with the happiness of living? The sky is all blue, the country all green, the houses all white; and our charmed eyes drink in these living colours, wherewith they fashion joy for our souls. And we feel impulsive desires to dance, to run, to sing, a happy lightness of the spirit, a kind of broadened, liberated tenderness; we feel as if we would like to embrace the sun.

The blind men in the doorways, impassive in their eternal darkness, remain calm as ever in the midst of this new gaiety of life and, incomprehending, they keep on quieting their dogs who long to gambol.

When they go home, at the end of the day, on the arm of a young brother or little sister, if the child says: “It has been a lovely day!” they will reply: “Yes, I knew very well it was a fine day, Loulou would not keep still.”

I knew one of these men, whose life was one of the most cruel martyrdoms that can be dreamt of.

He was a peasant, the son of a Norman farmer. As long as his father and mother were alive, fairly good care was taken of him; he hardly suffered except from his horrible infirmity; but as soon as the old people were gone, his appalling existence began. Taken in by a sister, he was treated by everyone on the farm as a beggar who ate the bread of others. At every meal his food was grudged him; he was called sluggard and booby; and although his brother-in-law had got possession of his share of the inheritance, his broth was given him with reluctance, and only in just sufficient quantity to keep him from death.

His face was very pale, and his two eyes were large and white like sealing-wafers; he remained impassive under all insults, so walled up in himself that no one knew whether he felt them. And he had never known any affection, his mother having always been a trifle harsh with him, loving him very little; for in the country the useless are nuisances, and peasants would gladly copy the fowls, that kill off the weakly among themselves.

As soon as his soup was swallowed, he would go and sit before the door in summer, beside the fire in winter, and would not move till evening. He made no gesture, no movement; only his eyelids, shaken by a kind of nervous affliction, would occasionally fall over the white spots of his eyes. Had he a spirit, a mind, a clear consciousness of his life? No one wondered.

For a few years things went on like this. But his inability to do anything, as much as his imperturbability, ended by exasperating his relations, and he became a scapegoat, a sort of buffoon-martyr, a kind of prey sacrificed to the natural ferocity and savage merriment of the brutes around him.

They thought of all the cruel jests which his blindness inspired. And, in order to pay themselves for what he ate, they turned his meals into hours of pleasure for the neighbours and of torture for the helpless wretch.

The peasants of the neighbouring houses came to this entertainment; stories of it ran from door to door, and the farm kitchen was full every day. Sometimes a cat or a dog was put on the table, in front of the plate from which he was beginning to take his soup. Instinctively the animal would realise the man’s infirmity and would very softly draw near, eating without a sound, lapping it up delicately; and when a rather noisy splashing of the tongue had aroused the poor wretch’s attention, it would prudently draw away to avoid the random blow from the spoon that followed.

Then there was much laughter, nudging, and stamping from the spectators crowded along the walls. And without saying a word he would begin to eat again, with his right hand, while, with his outstretched left arm, he protected and defended his plate.

Sometimes they made him eat corks, wood, leaves, or even filth, which he could not distinguish.

Then they even wearied of their pleasantries; and the brother-in-law, growing angry at always having to feed him, struck him, and constantly boxed his ears, laughing at his victim’s futile efforts to ward off the blows or return them. This became a new game: the slap game. The ploughboys, the labourer, and the maids were constantly thrusting their hands at his face, and this produced a hurried twitching in his eyelids. He did not know where to hide, and kept his arms constantly extended to avoid their assaults.

At last they forced him to beg. They placed him on the roads on market days, and, as soon as he heard a sound of footsteps or the rattle of a carriage, he would hold out his hat, faltering: “Charity, if you please.”

But the peasant is not free with his money, and, during entire weeks, he did not bring home a halfpenny.

Then their real hatred was unchained, pitiless. And this is how he died:

One winter, the earth was covered with snow, and it froze appallingly hard. His brother-in-law, one morning, led him a long way off to a high road to make him beg for alms. He left him there all day, and when night was come, he told his household that he had not been able to find him. “But there!” he added, “we mustn’t bother, someone will have taken him off because he was cold. Of course he isn’t lost. He’ll come back tomorrow to eat his broth all right.”

The next day he did not come back.

After long hours of waiting, gripped by the cold, feeling that he was dying, the blind man had begun to walk. Unable to make out the road, which was buried under this froth of ice, he had wandered at random, falling into ditches and rising again, always silent, searching for a house.

But the numbness of the snows had gradually taken hold on him, and, his weak limbs unable to carry him farther, he had sat down in the middle of a field. He never got up again.

The white flakes fell steadily and buried him. His stiffened body disappeared under the ceaseless accumulation of the infinite multitude of them; and nothing indicated the spot where the corpse lay.

His relatives made a show of inquiring and searching for him for eight days. They even cried.

The winter was a hard one, and the thaw did not come soon. But one Sunday, on their way to Mass, the farmers noticed a great flock of crows hovering continually over the field, then swooping down like a black shower of rain, in troops, to the same spot, constantly rising from it again and returning to it.

The following week the dark birds were still there. The sky bore a cloud of them, as though they had assembled from every corner of the horizon; and they dropped down with a great clamour to the dazzling snow, making a strange-looking pattern of spots upon it, and obstinately searching in it.

A boy went to see what they were doing, and found the body of the blind man, already half-eaten, torn to shreds. His pale eyes had vanished, pricked out by the long, ravenous beaks.

And I can never feel the vivid gaiety of days of sunshine without a sad remembrance and a melancholy thought of the poor wretch, so robbed of all things in life that his horrible death was a relief to all who had known him.

Magnetism

The dinner was ended and the bachelors were sitting over their cigars and liqueurs, feeling comfortably quiescent as a result of good food and drink, when someone started a discussion of magnetism: Donato’s tricks and Charcot’s experiments. These sceptical, easygoing men who cared nothing about religion, unexpectedly began to tell stories of strange happenings, incredible things that nevertheless had really occurred, so they said; suddenly converted to the mysteries of magnetism which they supported in the name of science, they fell back into superstitious beliefs clinging like a burr to this last remnant of magic.

One of the party⁠—a man full of vigour, a follower of young girls and hunter of women⁠—smiled in his convinced incredulity: as he did not believe in anything, all discussion seemed to him to be futile.

He repeated with a sneer: “Humbug! humbug! humbug! We need not discuss Donato, who is simply a smart juggler. Monsieur Charcot, who is said to be a great scholar, seems to me like a storyteller of the Edgar Poe type who ends in a madhouse through concentrating on queer cases of insanity. He had proved the existence of unexplained and still inexplicable nervous phenomena, he deals with unknown forces that are now being investigated, and as he cannot always understand what he sees he probably remembers the ecclesiastical interpretation of these mysteries. I would like to hear what he himself has to say, quite a different thing to listening to your version of his conclusions.”

The rest of the party rather pitied the unbeliever; they felt as an assembly of monks would do towards a blasphemer. One of them exclaimed: “Still there were miracles in olden times!” to which he replied: “That I deny. Why are there none in our days?”

Then each one mentioned some fact, some weird presentiment, some instance of telegraphic communication from a distance or some case of one being’s secret influence over another. They asserted and maintained that these things had really happened, while the obstinate sceptic repeated: “Humbug! humbug! humbug!” At last he got up, threw away his cigar, and, with hands in his pockets, said: “Well, I will tell you two stories which I will explain afterwards. Here they are:

“In the little village of Étretat all the men, sailors every man of them, go off to the Newfoundland cod fisheries every year. Well, one night the child of one of the fishermen woke up with a start, crying out that ‘his father had died at sea.’ The child fell asleep again, but woke up again, screaming that ‘his father was drowned.’ A month later the news came that the father had, indeed, been swept off the deck by a wave. The widow remembered the child’s dream, everyone declared it to be a miracle, and the affair caused a great sensation. When dates were compared it was found that the accident and the dream coincided pretty closely, so it was concluded that they had happened at the same time on the same night. Here you have a mystery of magnetism.”

The speaker stopped and one of the party, visibly affected, asked:

“And you say you can explain that?”

“Certainly, I discovered the secret. The incident had astonished and even worried me, but you see I disbelieve on principle. Just as others always begin by believing, I begin by doubting, and when I fail to understand I still deny all telepathic communication between two souls, convinced that my own intelligence will find a solution. Well, I turned the matter over in my mind, and after questioning the wives of the absent fishermen I discovered that hardly a week passed without someone, either wife or child, dreaming and announcing that ‘the father had died at sea.’ The terrible, haunting dread of accidents makes them a constant subject of conversation, and fills the thoughts of the women and children. If, by any chance, one of these predictions coincides with a death, at once it is said to be a miracle, for they forget all the dreams, the omens, the sinister forebodings that are not fulfilled. I have myself known fifty cases which were completely forgotten within a week. But if the man had indeed died, the dream was remembered at once and the coincidence attributed to the intervention of the Almighty by some, while others declared it to be due to magnetism.”

One of the party said: “Well, all that is true enough; now for your second story?”

“Oh, the second is rather awkward to tell. It happened to myself and so I don’t place any great value on my own view of the matter. An interested party can never give an impartial opinion. However, here it is:

“Among my acquaintances was a young woman on whom I had never bestowed a thought, at whom I had never even looked with any interest, of whom I had taken no notice, as the saying goes.

“I classed her as an insignificant woman, though she was not bad-looking; I simply knew that she had eyes, a nose, a mouth and some kind of hair, in fact that she was a colourless type. She was one of those beings who only attract passing attention by pure luck: a woman that men do not desire.

“Well, one night as I was writing letters by the fireside before going to bed, I was conscious, in the midst of a riot of ideas, of a series of those mental pictures that sometimes glide through one’s brain in moments of idle dreaming, of a kind of faint breath blowing through me⁠—a slight flutter of the heart⁠—and immediately, without cause, without any logical connection of ideas, I saw as distinctly as if I were touching her the unclothed, full-length vision of the woman to whom I had never given more than a passing thought at any time. And I suddenly discovered in her a hitherto unsuspected attraction, a gentle charm, a languorous fascination. She kindled in me that amorous yearning which makes a man run after a woman. But I soon forgot all about it, I went to bed and fell asleep. Then I dreamed.

“You have probably all dreamt strange dreams in which nothing is impossible, which open every sealed door for you, which reveal unhoped-for joy and provide a master key that uncloses tightly folded arms.

“Which of us in those troubled, exciting, breathless slumbers has not held, embraced, fondled and possessed, with an extraordinary intensity of rapture, the woman who filled his thoughts? And have you ever noticed the exquisite delight these happy dreams give us? The mad intoxication, the throbbing paroxysms; the infinitely caressing, absorbing tenderness that fills your heart for the woman swooning in your arms in that adorable yet brutal illusion that seems so real.

“I felt all this with so fierce a passion that I can never forget. The woman was mine, so much mine that the sweet warmth of her skin clung to my fingers, the smell of her skin clung to my nostrils, the flavour of her kisses to my lips, the sound of her voice to my ears, the soft touch of her arms clung round my body, and the enchantment of her tenderness clung to my whole being long after the delight and disillusion of my awakening.

“I dreamt the same dream three times that night.

“When day dawned I was obsessed by her, she took possession of me, haunting my very soul with such intensity that my every thought was hers.

“At last in despair I dressed and went to see her. As I went up the staircase I trembled all over, my heart beat riotously and my body was filled with yearning.

“I entered the flat. Directly she heard my name she got up and suddenly our eyes met in a long, fixed gaze. I sat down, and stammered out some commonplaces which she apparently did not hear. I knew neither what to say nor what to do. Then, abruptly I seized hold of her and clasped her in my arms, and my dream was realised so quickly, so easily, so feverishly, that I began to doubt whether I was really awake.⁠ ⁠… She was my mistress for two years⁠ ⁠…”

“What do you make of it?” asked a voice.

“I think⁠ ⁠… I think it was just a coincidence! But then, who knows? Perhaps some glance of hers, unnoticed at the time, came back to me that night through one of those mysterious, unconscious promptings which often recall things neglected by our consciousness, unperceived by our minds!”

“Whatever name you like to give it,” said one of the party, “if you do not believe in magnetism after that, old man, you are an ungrateful wretch!”

Guillemot Rock

This is the season for guillemots.

From April until the end of May, before the bathers arrive from Paris, one may observe, at the little watering-place called Étretat, the sudden appearance of certain old gentlemen in top-boots and tight shooting-coats. They spend four or five days at the Hôtel Hanville, disappear, come again three weeks later; then, after a second stay, depart for good.

The following spring, they appear again.

They are the last hunters of the guillemot, the survivors of those of the old days; for thirty or forty years ago there were some twenty of these fanatics, but now they are but a few fanatical sportsmen.

The guillemot is a rare migrant whose habits are strange. For almost the whole of the year it lives in the neighbourhood of Newfoundland, and of the islands of Saint-Pierre and Miquelon; but at the nesting-season a band of emigrants crosses the Atlantic and, every year, comes to lay its eggs and hatch them out on the same spot, the rock called Guillemot Rock, near Étretat. They are never to be found in any other spot than this. They have always come thither, they have always been shot, and they still keep coming back; they always will come back. As soon as the young birds have been raised, they go away again, and disappear for a year.

Why do they never go elsewhere, choose some other point in the long white cliff, which runs unchanged from the Pas de Calais to Le Havre? What force, what unconquerable instinct, what age-long custom impels these birds to return to this spot? What was the manner of their first emigration, or the nature of the tempest which may long since have cast their sires upon this rock? And why have the children, the grandchildren, all the descendants of the first comers always returned thither?

They are not numerous; a hundred at the most, as though a solitary family possessed this tradition, performed this annual pilgrimage.

And every spring, as soon as the little wandering tribe is reinstalled upon its rock, the same hunters reappear in the village. Once, as young men, they were familiar to the inhabitants; today they are old, but still faithful to the regular meeting-place that for the past thirty or forty years they have appointed for their gathering.

For nothing in the world would they fail to keep the appointment.

It was an April evening in one of the last years. Three of the old guillemot-shooters had just arrived; one of them was missing, Monsieur d’Arnelles.

He had written to no one, given no news! But he was not dead, like so many others; it would have been known. At last, weary of waiting, the first comers sat down to table; dinner was nearly over when a carriage rolled into the yard of the hostelry; and soon the late arrival entered.

He sat down, in excellent spirits, rubbing his hands, ate with a good appetite, and, as one of his companions expressed surprise at his wearing a frock-coat, replied calmly:

“Yes, I had not time to change.”

They went to bed as soon as they rose from the table, for, in order to surprise the birds, it is necessary to start well before daybreak.

Nothing is pleasanter than this sport, this early morning expedition.

At three in the morning the sailors wake the sportsmen by throwing gravel at their window panes. In a few minutes all are ready and down on the shingle beach. Although no twilight is yet visible, the stars have paled a little; the sea screams over the pebbles, the breeze is so cold that they shiver a little, despite their thick clothes.

Soon the two boats, pushed out by the men, rush down the slope of rounded pebbles, with a noise as of tearing canvas; then they are swaying upon the first waves. The brown sails are hoisted up the masts, swell slightly, tremble, hesitate, and, bulging once more, round-bellied, sweep the tarred hulls away towards the wide opening down the river, dimly visible in the gloom.

The sky grows clear; the darkness seems to melt away; the coastline appears, still veiled in mist, the long white coastline, straight as a wall. They pass the Manne-Porte, an enormous arch through which a ship could go, double the point of La Courtine, run past the vale of Antifer and the cape of the same name; and suddenly there rushes into sight a beach on which are hundreds of gulls. It is Guillemot Rock.

It is merely a small hump of cliff, and on the narrow ledges of rock the heads of birds are visible, watching the boats.

They are there, motionless, waiting, not daring as yet to fly away. Some, settled upon the extreme edges, look as though they are sitting on their hind parts, upright like bottles, for their legs are so short that, when they walk, they appear to be gliding on wheels, and, when they want to fly away, they are unable to start with a run, and are obliged to let themselves fall like stones, almost on top of the men spying upon them.

They are aware of their weakness and the danger it entails, and do not readily decide to fly.

But the sailors begin to shout and beat the gunwales with the wooden tholepins, and the birds, terrified, one by one launch out into the void, and drop to the very level of the waves; then, their wings beating with swift strokes, they gather way, dart off, and reach the open spaces, unless a hail of shot casts them into the water.

For an hour they are slaughtered thus, one after another being forced to make off; and sometimes the females on their nests, utterly devoted to the business of hatching, refuse to leave, and ever and anon receive a volley which splashes their white plumage with spots of rosy blood, and the bird dies, still faithfully guarding her eggs.

On the first day, Monsieur d’Anelles shot with his customary enthusiasm; but, when they went off home at about ten o’clock, beneath the high and radiant sun which threw great triangles of light into the white clefts in the cliffs, he appeared somewhat distracted, and now and then he seemed lost in thought, unlike his usual self.

As soon as they were back on land, some sort of servant, clad in black, came and whispered with him. He appeared to reflect, to hesitate; then he replied:

“No, tomorrow.”

And, next day, the shooting was resumed. This time Monsieur d’Anelles often missed his birds, though they let themselves fall almost on to the end of his gun-barrel, and his friends, laughing, asked him if he was in love, if any secret trouble were tormenting his heart and brain. At last he admitted it.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I must be off directly, and I find it annoying.”

“What, you’re going away? Why?”

“Oh, urgent business. I can’t stay any longer.”

Then they began to talk of other things.

As soon as lunch was over, the servant in black reappeared. Monsieur d’Anelles ordered him to harness the horses, and the fellow was on the point of going out when the three other sportsmen intervened, insisting on an explanation, with many entreaties and demands that their friend should stay.

At last one of them said:

“But, look here, this business of yours can’t be so very serious, if you’ve already waited two days.”

The fourth, altogether perplexed, reflected, plainly a prey to conflicting ideas, torn between pleasure and duty, unhappy and ill at ease.

After a long period of meditation, he murmured with some hesitation:

“You see⁠ ⁠… you see, I am not alone here; I have my son-in-law with me.”

There were cries and exclamations.

“Your son-in-law?⁠ ⁠… But where is he?”

At that he appeared suddenly confounded, and blushed.

“What? Didn’t you know? Why⁠ ⁠… why⁠ ⁠… he is out in the barn. He’s dead.”

Stupefied silence reigned.

More and more distressed, Monsieur d’Anelles continued:

“I have had the misfortune to lose him; and, as I was taking the body to my home at Briseville, I made a slight detour just to keep our appointment here. But you will realise that I can delay no longer.”

Then one of the sportsmen, bolder than the rest, suggested:

“But⁠ ⁠… since he is dead⁠ ⁠… it seems to me⁠ ⁠… that he might very well wait one more day.”

The two others hesitated no longer.

“You can’t deny that,” they said.

Monsieur d’Arnelles seemed relieved of a great weight, but, still somewhat uneasy, he inquired:

“You⁠ ⁠… you honestly think⁠ ⁠… ?”

As one man, the three others replied:

“Dash it all! dear boy, two days more or less won’t make any difference to him in his condition.”

Thereupon, perfectly at ease, the father-in-law turned round to the undertaker.

“Very well, my good man, let it be the day after tomorrow.”

A Son

The two old friends were walking in the garden all in bloom, where life was stirred by the gay springtime.

One was a senator and the other a member of the French Academy, grave, both of them, full of reason and logic, but solemn⁠—people of note and reputation.

At first they chattered about politics, exchanging thoughts, not upon ideas but men: personalities, which in such matters, always take precedence over reasoned argument. Then they awoke old memories; then they were silent, continuing to walk side by side, both relaxed by the sweetness of the air.

A great cluster of wallflowers sent forth their sweet and delicate perfume. A heap of flowers, of every kind and colour, threw their sweetness into the air, while a laburnum tree, covered with yellow flowers, scattered to the wind its fine powder, a golden smoke which reminded one of honey, and which carried, like the caressing powder of the perfumer, its embalmed seed across space.

The senator stopped, inhaled the fertile cloud that was floating by him, looked at the blossoming tree, resplendent as a sun, from which the pollen was now escaping. And he said:

“When one thinks that these imperceptible atoms, which smell so nice, can bring in to existence in a hundred places, miles from here, plants of their own kind, can start the sap and fibre of the female trees, and produce creatures with roots, which are born from a germ, as we are, mortal as we are, and which will be replaced by other beings of the same essence, just like us!”

Then, standing in front of the radiant laburnum tree, whose vivifying perfume permeated every breath of air, the senator added:

“Ah! my fine fellow, if you were to count your children you would be woefully embarrassed. Here is one who brings them easily into the world, abandons them without remorse and worries little about them afterward.”

The Academician replied: “We do the same, my friend.”

The senator answered: “Yes, I do not deny that; we do abandon them sometimes, but we know it, at least, and that constitutes our superiority.”

The other man shook his head: “No, that is not what I mean; you see, my dear fellow, there is scarcely a man who does not possess some unknown children, those children labeled father unknown, whom he has created, as this tree reproduces itself, almost unconsciously.

“If we had to establish the count of the women we have had, we should be, should we not, as embarrassed as this laburnum tree which you are addressing, if it were called upon to enumerate its descendants?

“From eighteen to forty, counting all our passing encounters and contacts of an hour, it may easily be granted that we have had intimate relations with two or three hundred women. Ah, well! my friend, among this number are you sure that you have not made fruitful at least one, and that you have not, upon the streets or in prison, some blackguard son, who robs and assassinates honest people, that is to say, people like us? or perhaps a daughter, in some house of ill-fame? or perhaps, if she chanced to be abandoned by her mother, a cook in somebody’s kitchen?

“Remember further that nearly all women that we call ‘public’ possess one or two children whose father they do not know, children caught in the hazard of their embraces at ten or twenty francs. In every trade, there is profit and loss. This offspring constitutes the ‘loss’ of their profession. Who were their progenitors? You⁠—I⁠—all of us, respectable men! These are the results of our gay dinner parties, of our amusing evenings, of the hours when our well-fed bodies drive us to chance love encounters.

“Robbers, tramps, all such wretches, in short, are our children. And how much better that is for us than if we were theirs, for they reproduce also, these ruffians!

“Listen: I, for my part, have an ugly story on my conscience, which I would like to tell you. It brings me incessant remorse, and more than that, continual doubt and an unappeasable uncertainty which at times tortures me horribly.

“At the age of twenty-five I had undertaken, with one of my friends, now a conseiller d’État, a journey through Brittany, on foot.

“After fifteen or twenty days of rapid walking, after having visited the Côtes-du-Nord, and a part of Finisterre, we arrived at Douarnenez; from there, in a day’s march, we reached the wild Pointe du Raz, via the Baie des Trépassés, where we slept in some village whose name ends in of. When the morning came a strange fatigue held my comrade in bed. I say ‘bed’ from habit, since our bed was composed simply of two bundles of straw.

“It was impossible to be sick in such a place. I forced him to get up, and we reached Audierne about four or five o’clock in the evening. The next day he was a little better. We set out again, but on the way he was taken with intolerable pains and it was with great difficulty that we were able to reach Pont-Labbé.

“There at least there was an inn. My friend went to bed, and the doctor, whom we called from Quimper, found a high fever, without quite determining the nature of it.

“Do you know Pont-Labbé? No. Well, it is the most characteristic Breton town from Pointe du Raz to Morbihan⁠—a region which contains the essence of Breton morals, and legends, and customs. Today, even, this corner of the country has scarcely changed at all. I say ‘today, even,’ because I return there now every year, alas!

“An old castle bathes the foot of its towers in a sad, dismal pond, peopled by flights of wild birds. Out of it flows a river, deep enough for coasting vessels to come up to the town. In the narrow streets, with the old houses, the men wear wide hats and embroidered waistcoats and four coats, one above the other; the first, about the size of the hand, covers only the shoulder-blades, while the last stops just above the seat of the breeches.

“The girls, who are tall, beautiful, and fresh looking, wear a bodice of thick cloth which forms a breastplate and corset, constraining and leaving scarcely a suspicion of their swelling, martyrized busts. Their headdresses are also strange: over the temples two embroidered bands in colour frame the face, binding the hair, which falls loose behind the head and is then carried up to the crown of the head under a curious bonnet often woven of gold or silver.

“The servant at our inn was eighteen years old at the most, with blue eyes, a pale blue, which were pierced with the two little black dots of the pupils; and with short closely set teeth, which she constantly showed in laughing and which seemed made for biting granite.

“She did not know a word of French, speaking only the Breton patois, as do most of her compatriots.

“Well, my friend was no better, and, although no disease was diagnosed, the doctor forbade his setting out, ordering complete rest. I spent the days with him, the little maid coming in frequently, bringing perhaps my dinner or some drink for him.

“I teased her a little, which seemed to amuse her, but we did not talk, naturally, since we could not understand each other.

“Well, one night, having remained with the sick man very late, when going to my room, I met the girl going to hers. It was just opposite my open door. Then suddenly, without reflecting upon what I was doing, and more by way of a joke than anything, I seized her around the waist, and before she was over her astonishment I had thrown her and shut her in my room. She looked at me, startled, frightened, terrified, not daring to cry out for fear of scandal, and of being driven out by her master at first and her father afterwards.

“I had done this as a joke; but when I saw her there, I was filled by the desire to possess her. There was a long and silent struggle, a struggle of body against body after the fashion of athletes, with arms tense, contracted, twisted; rapid breathing, skin moist with perspiration. Oh! she fought valiantly; and sometimes we would hit a piece of furniture, a partition, or a chair; then, still clutching each other, we would remain motionless for some seconds in fear lest the noise had awakened someone; then we would commence again our desperate battle, I attacking, she resisting. Exhausted, finally, she fell; and I took her brutally, upon the ground, upon the floor.

“As soon as she was released, she ran to the door, drew the bolts, and fled. I scarcely met her during the following days. She would not allow me to go near her. Then, when my comrade was better and we were to continue our journey, on the eve of our departure, she came barefooted, in her chemise, to the room where I had just retired.

“She threw herself into my arms, drew me to her passionately, and, until daylight, embraced me, caressed me, weeping and sobbing, giving me all the assurances of tenderness and despair that a woman can give when she does not know a word of our language.

“A week later I had forgotten this adventure, so common and frequent when one is travelling, the servants of the inns being generally destined to entertain travellers in this manner.

“Thirty years passed without my thinking of, or returning to, Pont-Labbé. Then, in 1876, I happened to go there, in the course of an excursion into Brittany which I had undertaken to get material for a book and to make myself familiar with the landscape.

“Nothing seemed to have changed. The castle still soaked its grey walls in the pond at the entrance of the little town; the inn was there, too, although repaired, remodelled, with a modern air. On entering I was received by two young Breton girls of about eighteen, fresh and pretty, enlaced in their narrow cloth bodices, with their silver headdress and large embroidered ear caps.

“It was about six o’clock in the evening. I sat down to dine and as the host was serving me himself, fate, without doubt, led me to ask him: ‘Did you know the former master of this house? I spent a fortnight here once, thirty years ago. I am speaking of very far-off times.’

“He answered: ‘Those were my parents, sir.’

“Then I told him the occasion of my stopping there, recalling my being detained by the illness of my comrade. He did not allow me to finish:

“ ‘Oh! I remember that perfectly,’ said he; ‘I was fifteen or sixteen then. You slept in the room at the end of the hall and your friend in the one that is now mine, looking on to the street.’

“Then for the first time, a vivid recollection of the pretty maid came back to me. I asked: ‘Do you recall a nice little servant that your father had, who had, if I remember, pretty blue eyes and fine teeth?’

“He replied: ‘Yes, sir; she died in childbirth some time after.’

“And pointing toward the courtyard where a thin lame man was turning over some manure, he added: ‘That is her son.’

“I began to laugh. ‘He is not beautiful, and does not resemble his mother at all. Takes after his father, no doubt.’

“The innkeeper replied: ‘It may be; but they never knew who his father was. She died without telling, and no one here knew she had a lover. It was a tremendous surprise when we found it out. No one would believe it.’

“A kind of disagreeable shiver went over me, one of those painful suggestions that touch the heart, like the approach of a heavy sorrow. I looked at the man in the yard. He came now to draw some water for the horses and carried two pails, limping, making grievous efforts with the leg that was shorter. He was ragged and hideously dirty, with long yellow hair, so matted that it hung in strings down his cheeks.

“The innkeeper added: ‘He is not up to much, and has only been kept here out of charity. Perhaps he would have turned out better if he had been brought up properly. But, you see how it is, sir?

“ ‘No father, no mother, no money! My parents took pity on him as a child, but after all⁠—he was not theirs, you see.’

“I said nothing.

“I went to bed in my old room, and all night I could think of nothing but that frightful stable boy, repeating to myself: ‘What if that were my son! Could I have killed that girl and brought that creature into existence?’

“It was possible, of course. I resolved to speak to this man and to find out exactly the date of his birth. A difference of two months would set my doubts at rest.

“I had him come to me the next day. But he could not speak French either. He seemed not to understand anything. Besides, he was absolutely ignorant of his age, which one of the maids asked him for me. And he stood in front of me like an idiot, rolling his cap in his knotty and disgusting paws, laughing stupidly, with something of the old laugh of the mother in the corners of his mouth and eyes.

“But the host came along, and went to look up the birth certificate of the poor wretch. He entered this life eight months and twenty-six days after my departure from Pont-Labbé, because I recalled perfectly arriving at Lorient on the fifteenth of August. The record said: ‘Father unknown.’ The mother was called Jeanne Karradec.

“Then my heart began to beat rapidly. I could not speak, I felt so choked with emotion. And I looked at that brute, whose long yellow hair seemed a more sordid dung heap than that of beasts. And the wretch, embarrassed by my look, ceased to laugh, turned his head, and tried to get away.

“Every day I would wander along the little river, sadly reflecting. But what was the use? Nothing could give me any certainty. For hours and hours I would weigh all the reasons, good and bad, for and against the chances of my paternity, worrying myself with intricate suppositions, only to return again to the horrible suspicion, then to the conviction, more atrocious still, that this man was my son.

“I could not dine and I retired to my room. It was a long time before I could sleep. Then sleep came, a sleep haunted with insupportable visions. I could see this ninny laughing in my face and calling me ‘Papa.’ Then he would change into a dog and bite me in the calf of my leg. In vain I tried to free myself, he would follow me always, and, instead of barking he would speak, abusing me. Then he would appear before my colleagues at the Academy, called together for the purpose of deciding whether I was his father. And one of them cried: ‘It is indubitable! See how he resembles him!’

“And in fact, I perceived that the monster did resemble me. And I awoke with this idea fixed in my mind, and with a mad desire to see the man again and decide whether he did or did not have features in common with my own.

“I joined him as he was going to Mass (it was on Sunday) and gave him a franc, scanning his face anxiously. He began to laugh in an ignoble fashion, took the money, then, again constrained by my eye, he fled, after having blurted out a word, almost inarticulate, which meant to say ‘Thank you,’ without doubt.

“That day passed for me in the same agony as the preceding. Toward evening I sent for the proprietor and, with great caution, precautions, and finesse, I told him that I had become interested in this poor being so abandoned by everybody and so deprived of everything, and that I wished to do something for him.

“The man replied: ‘Oh, don’t worry about him, sir. He wants nothing; you will only make trouble for yourself. I employ him to clean the stable, and it is all that he can do. For that, I feed him and he sleeps with the horses. He needs nothing more. If you have an old pair of trousers, give them to him, but they will be in pieces in a week.’

“I did not insist, but waited to see.

“The fellow returned that evening, horribly drunk, almost setting fire to the house, striking one of the horses a blow with a pickax, and finally went to sleep in the mud out in the rain, thanks to my generosity. They begged me, the next day, not to give him any more money. Liquor made him furious, and when he had two sous in his pocket he drank it. The innkeeper added: ‘To give him money is to kill him.’ This man had absolutely never had any money, save a few centimes thrown to him by travellers, and he knew no other destination for it but the alehouse.

“Then I passed some hours in my room with an open book which I made a pretence of reading, but without accomplishing anything except to look at this brute. My son! my son! I was trying to discover if he was anything like me. By dint of searching I believed I recognized some similar lines in the brow and about the nose. And I was immediately convinced of a resemblance which only different clothing and the hideous mane of the man disguised.

“I could not stay there very long without being suspected, and I set out with breaking heart, after having left with the innkeeper some money to ease the existence of his stable-boy.

“For six years I have lived with this thought, this horrible uncertainty, this abominable doubt, and each year an irresistible force drags me back to Pont-Labbé. Each year I condemn myself to the torture of seeing this brute wallow in his filth, imagining that he resembles me, and of seeking, always in vain, to be helpful to him. And each year I come back more undecided, more tortured, more anxious.

“I have tried to have him educated, but he is an incurable idiot. I have tried to render life less painful to him, but he is an incurable drunkard and uses all the money that is given him for drink. And he knows very well how to sell his new clothes to get cognac.

“I have tried to arouse pity in his employer for him, that he might treat him more gently, always offering him money. The innkeeper, astonished, finally remarked very wisely: ‘Everything you do for him, sir, will only ruin him. He must be kept like a prisoner. As soon as he has time given him or favours shown, he becomes vicious. If you wish to do good there are plenty of abandoned children. Choose one that will be worth your trouble.’

“What could I say to that?

“And if I should disclose a suspicion of the doubts which torture me, this brute would certainly turn rogue and exploit me, compromise me, ruin me. He would cry out to me: ‘Papa,’ as in my dream.

“And I tell myself that I have killed the mother and ruined this atrophied being, larva of the stable, born and bred on a dunghill, this man who, if he had been brought up as others are, might have been like others.

“And you cannot imagine the strange, confused, intolerable sensation I feel in his presence, as I think that this has come from me, that he belongs to me by that intimate bond which binds father to son, that, thanks to the terrible laws of heredity, he is a part of me in a thousand things, by his blood and his flesh, and that he has the same germs of sickness and the same ferments of passion.

“And I have always an unappeasable and painful desire to see him, and the sight of him makes me suffer horribly; and from my window down there I look at him for hours as he pitchforks and carts away the dung of the beasts, repeating to myself: ‘That is my son!’

“And I feel, sometimes, an intolerable desire to embrace him. But I have never even touched his filthy hand.”

The Academician was silent. And his companion, the politician, murmured: “Yes, indeed; we ought to think a little more about the children who have no father.”

Then a breath of wind came up, and the great tree shook its clusters, and enveloped with a fine, odorous cloud the two old men, who took long draughts of the sweet perfume.

And the senator added: “It is fine to be twenty-five years old, and even to become a father like that.”

Travelling

Saint-Agnès, 6th May.

My Dear Friend,

You asked me to write to you often, and particularly to tell you what I had seen. You also asked me to search through my memories of travel and find some of those short anecdotes which one hears from a peasant met by the way, from some hotelkeeper, or some passing stranger, and which remain in the memory like the key to a country. You believe that a landscape sketched in a few lines, or a short story told in a few words, reveals the true character of a country, makes it live, visibly and dramatically. I shall try to do as you wish. From time to time I will send you letters, in which I shall not mention ourselves, but only the horizon and the people who move on it. Now I begin.

Spring, it seems to me, is a season when one should eat and drink landscapes. It is the season for sensations, as the autumn is the season for thought. In spring the country stirs the body; in autumn it penetrates the mind.

This year I wanted to inhale orange-blossoms, and I set out for the South at the time when everybody comes back from there. I passed through Monaco, the town of pilgrims, the rival of Mecca and Jerusalem, without leaving my money in anybody else’s pocket, and I ascended the high hills beneath a canopy of lemon, orange and olive trees.

Did you ever sleep in a field of orange trees in bloom? The air which one inhales deliciously is a quintessence of perfumes. This powerful and sweet smell, as savoury as a sweetmeat, seems to penetrate one, to impregnate, to intoxicate, to induce languor, to bring about a dreamy and somnolent torpor. It is like opium prepared by fairy hands and not by chemists.

This is a country of gorges. The sides of the mountains are seamed and slashed all over, and in these winding crevices grow veritable forests of lemon trees. At intervals, where the abrupt ravine stops at a sort of ledge, man has fashioned reservoirs which catch the water from the rain storms. They are great holes with smooth walls, which offer no projection to catch the hand of those who fall.

I was walking slowly through one of these rising valleys, looking through the leaves at the bright fruit still remaining on the branches. The narrow gorge made the heavy perfumes of the flowers more penetrating; in there the air seemed dense because of them. I felt tired and wanted to sit down. A few drops of water rolled on the grass, I thought a spring must be near, and I climbed higher to find it. But I reached the edge of one of these huge, deep reservoirs. I sat down cross-legged and remained dreaming in front of the hole, which seemed to be full of ink, so black and stagnant was the water in it. Down below, through the branches, I could see, like splashes, bits of the Mediterranean, blindingly dazzling. But my glance constantly returned to this vast and sombre hole which seemed uninhabited by any form of water life, its surface was so still.

Suddenly a voice made me start. An old gentleman, looking for flowers (for this country is the richest in Europe for botanists), asked me:

“Are you a relative of those poor children?”

I looked at him in astonishment.

“What children?”

Then he seemed embarrassed and answered with a bow:

“I beg your pardon. Seeing you so absorbed in that reservoir I imagined you were thinking of the awful drama which took place there.”

I wanted to know all about it, and I asked him to tell me the story.

It is a very gloomy and heartbreaking story, my dear, and very commonplace, at the same time. It is simply like an incident from the daily papers. I do not know whether my emotion is to be attributed to the dramatic way in which it was told to me, to the mountain background, or to the contrast between the joyous flowers and sunshine and this dark, murderous hole. My heart was torn and my nerves shaken by this story, which may not seem so terribly poignant to you, perhaps, as you read it in your room, without seeing the scene in which the drama is laid.

It was in the spring a few years back. Two little boys often used to play on the edge of this cistern, while their tutor read a book, lying under a tree. Now, one hot afternoon, a piercing cry aroused the man, who was dozing, and the noise of water splashing after a fall caused him to get up immediately. The younger of the two children, aged eleven years, was yelling, standing near the reservoir, whose troubled, rippling surface had closed over the elder, who had just fallen in while running along the stone ledge.

The distracted tutor, without waiting, without thinking, jumped into the depths, and did not appear again, having struck his head against the bottom. At the same moment, the little boy, who had come to the surface, was waving his arms to his brother. Then the child who was on dry land lay down and stretched out, while the other tried to swim, to reach the wall, and soon four little hands seized and held each other, clutching in a convulsive grip. Both felt the keen joy of being restored to life, the thrill of a peril that has passed. The elder tried to climb up, but could not, the wall being steep, and the younger, being too weak, was slowly slipping towards the hole. Then they remained motionless, seized again with terror, and waited.

The smaller boy grasped the hand of the older with all his might, and wept nervously, saying: “I can’t pull you up. I can’t pull you up.” Then, suddenly he began to shout: “Help! Help!” But his piping voice hardly pierced the dome of foliage above their heads. They remained there for a long time, for hours and hours, face to face, these two children, with the same thought, the same fear, the awful dread lest one of them, becoming exhausted, should loosen his weakened grip. And they kept on calling in vain. At length, the elder, who was shaking with cold, said to the younger: “I can’t go on. I am going to fall. Goodbye, little brother.” And the other repeated, with heaving breath: “Not yet, not yet; wait!” Evening came on, quiet evening, its stars reflected in the water. The elder boy, who was fainting, said: “Let go one hand, I want to give you my watch.” He had received it as a present a few days before, and since then it had been the chief care of his heart. He succeeded in getting it, handed it up, and the younger, who was sobbing, placed it on the grass beside him.

It was now completely dark. The two unfortunate creatures were overcome and could scarcely hold out much longer. The bigger boy, feeling that his hour had come, murmured again: “Goodbye, little brother. Kiss papa and mamma.” His paralysed fingers relaxed. He sank and did not come up again.⁠ ⁠…

The younger, who was left alone, began to cry madly: “Paul! Paul!” but his brother never returned. Then he dashed away, falling over stones, shaken by the most terrible anguish that can wring the heart of a child, and arrived in the drawing room where his parents were waiting. He lost his way again when taking them to the reservoir. He could not find the way. Finally he recognised the place. “It is there; yes, it is there.” The cistern had to be emptied, and the owner would not allow this, as he needed the water for his lemon trees. In the end the two bodies were recovered, but not until the next day.

You see, my dear, that this is just a common newspaper story. But if you had seen the hole, you would have been moved to the bottom of your heart at the thought of this child’s agony, hanging on to his brother’s arm, of this interminable struggle on the part of two children accustomed only to laugh and play, and by that simple little detail: the giving over of the watch. I said to myself: “Fate preserve me from ever receiving such a relic!” I do not know of anything more terrible than the memory that clings to a familiar object that one cannot get rid of. Think that every time he touches this sacred watch, the survivor will see the horrible scene again, the cistern, the wall, the calm water, and the distorted face of his brother, still alive but as surely lost as though he were already dead. During his whole life, at every moment that vision will be there, evoked the moment the tip of his finger touches his watch pocket.

I felt sad until evening. I went off, still going higher, leaving the region of orange trees for the regions of olive trees only, and the latter for the pine-tree region. Then I entered a valley of stones, reaching the ruins of an old castle, built, they say, in the tenth century, by a Saracen chief, a wise man, who got baptised for love of a girl.

Mountains everywhere around me, and in front of me the sea, the sea on which there is a scarcely visible patch: Corsica, or rather the shadow of Corsica.

But on the mountain tops reddened by the setting sun, in the vast heavens, and on the sea, on the whole superb horizon I had come to admire, I saw only two poor children, one lying along the edge of a hole filled with black water, the other sunk up to his neck, held together by their hands, weeping face to face, distracted. And all the time I seemed to hear a feeble voice saying: “Goodbye, little brother. I give you my watch.”

This letter will seem very lugubrious to you, my dear friend. Another time I shall try to be more cheerful.

A Corsican Bandit

The road followed a gentle slope through the middle of the forest of Aïtone. Enormous pines spread out in an arch above our heads, making their sad, continuous, moaning complaint, while to our right and our left the thin straight trunks of the trees formed, as it were, a group of organ-pipes from which the monotonous music of the wind in the treetops seemed to issue.

After a three hours’ tramp there was a clearance in the tangled mass of long reeds: here and there a gigantic umbrella-pine, separated from the rest and looking like a huge sunshade, spread out its dull green canopy; then suddenly we reached the border of the forest some three hundred feet above the gorge that led to the wild valley of Niolo.

A few old, deformed trees seemed to have climbed painfully up the two lofty summits that dominated the pass, like pioneers in advance of the multitude crowding behind. As we turned round we saw the whole of the forest stretching out beneath us like an immense bowl of verdure, the edge of which seemed to touch the sky and was composed of bare rocks that formed a high wall all round.

We started off again and reached the gorge ten minutes later. There I saw an amazing sight. There was a valley beyond another forest, such as I had never seen before: ten miles of petrified solitude hollowed out between two mountains seven thousand feet high, and never a field or a tree to be seen. This was Niolo, the house of Corsican liberty, the inaccessible citadel from which the invader has never been able to eject the mountain-dwellers.

My companion said: “All our bandits take refuge there, too.” We soon reached the bottom of the wild, rugged slit whose beauty no words could express.

Not a blade of grass, not a single plant; granite, nothing but granite. So far as the eye could reach stretched a desert of sparkling granite heated as hot as an oven by the fierce sun that seemed purposely suspended over this gorge of stone. The sight of the crests of the mountains brought one up at a sharp turn, thrilled to the marrow. They looked red and jagged like festoons of coral (for the summits are of porphyry), and the sky overhead seemed violet, lilac, faded by the proximity of those strange-looking mountains. Lower down, the granite was of sparkling grey, and under our feet it was like grated, crushed powder, we were walking on gleaming dust. To the right a roaring torrent rushed along, scolding, as it followed its long and winding course. You cannot avoid stumbling in the heat, the blinding light of that dry, burning, rugged valley, divided by the turbulent stream hurriedly trying to escape, unable to fertilise the rocks, lost in a furnace that licks it up greedily without ever being refreshed or moistened.

Suddenly on our right we saw a little wooden cross stuck in a heap of stones. A man had been killed there and I said to my companion: “Tell me about your bandits.”

He continued: “I knew the most celebrated, the most terrible one, Sainte-Lucie; I will tell you about him.

“His father was killed in a quarrel by a young man of the same district, so it was said, and Sainte-Lucie was left with an only sister. He was a little chap, weak and fainthearted; he was often ill and had no energy whatever, and he did not declare a vendetta against his father’s assassin. And though his relations came and begged him to avenge his loss, he was deaf to their threats and pleading.

“According to an old Corsican custom, his indignant sister took away his black clothes so that he might not wear mourning for the unavenged dead. To this insult he remained indifferent, and rather than take down his father’s still-loaded gun he shut himself up and never went out, afraid to face the contemptuous glances of his comrades.

“Months went by and he seemed to have entirely forgotten the crime, he went on living with his sister in their own house. Well, a day came when the suspected assassin was to be married, but even this news did not seem to trouble Sainte-Lucie, and the fiancé, probably out of bravado, passed the house of the two orphans on his way to church.

“Seated by the window, the brother and sister were eating little fried cakes when the young man noticed the wedding procession. Seized with a fit of trembling, he got up without saying a word, took down the gun, and left the house. Talking about what happened later, he said: ‘I don’t know what was the matter with me. I felt my blood boiling; I felt it had to be, that, in spite of everything, I could not resist the inevitable, and I went and hid the gun in the thicket on the Corte road.’

“An hour later he came back without the gun, looking tired and sad, as usual. His sister thought he had forgotten all about his father, but at nightfall he disappeared.

“The enemy, with his two groomsmen, was going to Corte that evening. As they were walking along, singing gaily, suddenly Sainte-Lucie rose up in front of them and, staring at the murderer, shouted: ‘The time has come!’ and shot him point-blank through the lungs.

“One of the groomsmen fled; the other, looking at Sainte-Lucie, said: ‘What is the matter with you?’ and as he was going for help Saint-Lucie shouted: ‘If you move another step I will break your leg.’ The other, knowing how cowardly he had always been, said: ‘You dare not!’ and started off, but fell to the ground immediately with a bullet through his leg.

“Sainte-Lucie went up to him and said: ‘I am going to look at the wound; if it is not serious I will leave you here, if mortal I will finish you off.’ He looked at the wound and decided it to be mortal, then slowly reloaded his gun, told the man to say a prayer, and shot him through the head.

“The next day he went up into the mountains.

“And what do you think Sainte-Lucie did afterwards?

“His relations were all arrested: his uncle, the priest who was suspected of inciting him to vengeance, was sent to prison on a charge made by the dead fiancé’s relations, but he escaped and with a gun joined his nephew in the forest.

“One after the other, Sainte-Lucie killed his uncle’s accusers, and plucked out their eyes, to teach others never to swear to anything they had not seen themselves.

“He killed all his enemy’s relatives and their friends, he murdered fourteen policemen, and burnt down the houses of his opponents, and until his death was the most terrible of all the bandits known.”

The sun was disappearing behind Monte Cinto, and the broad shadow of the granite mountain lay over the granite of the valley. We hurried along so as to reach the little village of Albertace⁠—a heap of stones riveted to the granite sides of the wild gorge. I said, thinking of the bandit: “Your vendetta is a dreadful thing!”

My companion replied mildly: “It can’t be helped, a man must do his duty!”

A Dead Woman’s Secret

She had died painlessly, tranquilly, like a woman whose life was irreproachable, and she now lay on her back in bed, with closed eyes, calm features, her long white hair carefully arranged as if she had again made her toilet ten minutes before her death, all her pale physiognomy so composed, now that she had passed away, so resigned that one felt sure a sweet soul had dwelt in that body, that this serene grandmother had spent an untroubled existence, that this virtuous woman had ended her life without any shock, without any remorse.

On his knees, beside the bed, her son, a magistrate of inflexible principles, and her daughter Marguerite, in religion, Sister Eulalie, were weeping distractedly. She had from the time of their infancy armed them with an inflexible code of morality, teaching them a religion without weakness and a sense of duty without any compromise. He, the son, had become a magistrate, and, wielding the weapon of the law, he struck down without pity the feeble and the erring. She, the daughter, quite penetrated with the virtue that had bathed her in this austere family, had become the spouse of God through disgust with men.

They had scarcely known their father; all they knew was that he had made their mother unhappy without learning any further details. The nun passionately kissed one hand of her dead mother, which hung down, a hand of ivory like that of Christ in the large crucifix which lay on the bed. At the opposite side of the prostrate body, the other hand seemed still to grasp the rumpled sheet with that wandering movement which is called the fold of the dying, and the lines had retained little wavy creases as a memento of those last motions which precede the eternal motionlessness. A few light taps at the door caused the two sobbing heads to rise up, and the priest who had just dined, entered the apartment. He was flushed, a little puffed, from the effects of the process of digestion which had just commenced; for he had put a good dash of brandy into his coffee in order to counteract the fatigue caused by the last nights he had remained up and that which he anticipated from the night that was still in store for him. He had put on a look of sadness, that simulated sadness of the priest to whom death is a means of livelihood. He made the sign of the cross, and coming over to them with his professional gesture said:

“Well, my poor children, I have come to help you to pass these mournful hours.”

But Sister Eulalie suddenly rose up.

“Thanks, father, but my brother and I would like to be left alone with her. These are the last moments that we now have for seeing her; so we want to feel ourselves once more, the three of us, just as we were years ago when we⁠—we⁠—we were only children, and our poor⁠—poor mother⁠—”

She was unable to finish with the flood of tears that gushed from her eyes, and the sobs that were choking her.

But the priest bowed, with a more serene look on his face, for he was thinking of his bed. “Just as you please, my children.”

Then, he knelt down, again crossed himself, prayed, rose up, and softly stole away murmuring as he went: “She was a saint.”

They were left alone, the dead woman and her children. A hidden timepiece kept regularly ticking in its dark corner, and through the open window the soft odors of hay and of woods penetrated with faint gleams of moonlight. No sound in the fields outside, save the wandering notes of toads and now and then the humming of some nocturnal insect darting into like a ball, and knocking itself against the wall.

An infinite peace, a divine melancholy, a silent serenity surrounded this dead woman, seemed to emanate from her, to evaporate from her into the atmosphere outside and to calm Nature itself.

Then the magistrate, still on his knees, his head pressed against the bedclothes, in a far-off, heartbroken voice that pierced through the sheets and the coverlet, exclaimed:

“Mamma, mamma, mamma!” And the sister, sinking down on the floor, striking the wood with her forehead fanatically, twisting herself about and quivering like a person in an epileptic fit, groaned: “Jesus, Jesus⁠—mamma⁠—Jesus!”

And both of them shaken by a hurricane of grief panted with a rattling in their throats.

Then the fit gradually subsided, and they now wept in a less violent fashion, like the rainy calm that follows a squall on a storm-beaten sea. Then, after some time, they rose, and fixed their glances on the beloved corpse. And memories, those memories of the past, so sweet, so torturing today, came back to their minds with all those little forgotten details, those little details so intimate and familiar, which make the being who is no more live over again. They recalled circumstances, words, smiles, certain intonations of voice which belonged to one whom they should hear speaking to them again. They saw her once more happy and calm, and phrases she used in ordinary conversation rose to their lips. They even remembered a little movement of the hand peculiar to her, as if she were keeping time when she was saying something of importance.

And they loved her as they had never before loved her. And by the depth of their despair they realized how strongly they had been attached to her, and how desolate they would find themselves now.

She had been their mainstay, their guide, the best part of their youth, of that happy portion of their lives which had vanished; she had been the bond that united them to existence, the mother, the mamma, the creative flesh, the tie that bound them to their ancestors. They would henceforth be solitary, isolated; they would have nothing on earth to look back upon.

The nun said to her brother:

“You know how mamma used always to read over her old letters. They are all there in her drawer. Suppose we read them in our turn, and so revive all her life this night by her side? It would be like a kind of road of the cross, like making the acquaintance of her mother, of grandparents whom we never knew, whose letters are there, and of whom she has so often talked to us, you remember?”

And they drew forth from the drawer a dozen little packets of yellow paper, carefully tied up and placed close to one another. They flung these relics on the bed, and selecting one of them on which the word “Father” was written, they opened and read what was in it.

It consisted of those very old letters which are to be found in old family writing-desks, those letters which have the flavor of another century. The first said, “My darling,” another “My beautiful little girl,” then others “My dear child,” and then again “My dear daughter.” And suddenly the nun began reading aloud, reading for the dead her own history, all her tender souvenirs. And the magistrate listened, while he leaned on the bed, with his eyes on his mother’s face. And the motionless corpse seemed happy.

Sister Eulalie, interrupting herself, said: “We ought to put them into the grave with her, to make a winding-sheet of them, and bury them with her.”

And then she took up another packet, on which the descriptive word did not appear.

And in a loud tone she began: “My adored one, I love you to distraction. Since yesterday I have been suffering like a damned soul burned by the recollection of you. I feel your lips on mine, your eyes under my eyes, your flesh under my flesh. I love you! I love you! You have made me mad! My arms open! I pant with an immense desire to possess you again. My whole body calls out to you, wants you. I have kept in my mouth the taste of your kisses.”

The magistrate rose up; the nun stopped reading. He snatched the letter from her, and sought for the signature. There was none, save under the words, “He who adores you,” the name “Henry.” Their father’s name was René. So then he was not the man.

Then, the son, with rapid fingers, fumbled in the packet of letters took another of them, and read: “I can do without your caresses no longer.”

And, standing up, with the severity of a judge passing sentence, he gazed at