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Title: The Romance of a Poor Young Man

Creator: Octave Feuillet

Illustrator: Simont Guilhem

Translator: Henry Harland

Release date: March 24, 2014 [eBook #45200]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ROMANCE OF A POOR YOUNG MAN ***




Produced by Al Haines.





[Illustration: Octave Feuillet]




                            ENGLISH EDITION
                    A Library of French Masterpieces
                         EDITED BY EDMUND GOSSE



                            THE ROMANCE OF A
                             POOR YOUNG MAN


                          TRANSLATED FROM THE
                               FRENCH OF

                            OCTAVE FEUILLET


                    WITH A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION BY
                             HENRY HARLAND


                             ILLUSTRATED BY
                             SIMONT GUILHEM



                  London: The London Book Co. MCMVII.




                       *OCTAVE FEUILLET’S NOVELS*


To be serious seriously is the way of mediocrity. To be serious gaily is
not such an easy matter. To look on at the pantomime of things, and to
see, neatly separated, tragedy here, comedy opposite—to miss the
perpetual dissolution and resolution of the one into and out of the
other—is inevitable when eyes are purblind.  _Diis aliter visum_.
Olympus laughs because it perceives so many capital reasons for pulling
a long face; and half the time pulls a long face simply to keep from
laughing.  I imagine it is in some measure the Olympian manner of seeing
which explains the gay seriousness of the work of Octave Feuillet.

Octave Feuillet possesses to an altogether remarkable degree the art of
being serious not only gaily, but charmingly.  This, to begin with,
places him and his stories in a particular atmosphere; and, if we
consider it, I think we shall recognise that atmosphere as something
very like the old familiar atmosphere of the fairy-tale.  At any rate,
there is a delicate, a fanciful symbolism in Feuillet’s work, which
breathes a fragrance unmistakably reminiscent of the enchanted forest.
For an instance, one may recall the chapter in _Un Mariage dans le
Monde_ which relates the escapade of Lionel and his betrothed on the day
before their wedding. A conventional mother, busy with preparations for
the ceremony, intrusts her daughter to the chaperonage of an old aunt,
who is, we might suppose, exactly the person for the office.  But old
aunts are sometimes wonderfully made; sometimes they keep the most
unlooked-for surprises up those capacious old-fashioned sleeves of
theirs.  This one was a fairy godmother in disguise, and, I suspect, a
pupil of the grimly-benevolent Blackstick.  With good-humoured cynicism,
she remarks that the happiest period of even the happiest married life
is the day before it begins, and she advises her young charges to make
the most of it—chases them, indeed, from her presence.  "Be off with
you, my children!  Come, be off with you at once!"  They escape to the
park, where they romp like a pair of truant school-children.  That is
all; but in Feuillet’s hands it becomes a fairy idyl.  It serves,
besides, the symbolic purpose of striking at the outset the note of
joyousness which he means to repeat at the end, though the book is one
that threatens, almost to the last page, to end on a note of despair.
For _Un Mariage dans le Monde_, if far from being the most successful of
Feuillet’s novels, exhibits, none the less, some of his cleverest
craftsmanship.  He hoodwinks us into the fear that he meditates
disaster, only pleasantly, genially, at the right moment, to disappoint
us with the denouement we could have wished.

Feuillet’s geniality, for that matter, runs through all his books, and
is one of the vital principles of his talent.  It is never the flaccid
geniality, the amiability, of the undiscerning person; it is, rather,
the wise and alert geniality of the benign magician, who is sometimes
constrained to weave black spells, because that is a part of the game,
and in the day’s work, as it were, but who puts his heart only into the
weaving of spells that are rose-coloured. This is perhaps why Feuillet’s
nice people nearly always take flesh and live and breathe, his horrid
people hardly ever—another resemblance, by-the-bye, between him and the
writer of fairy-tales. The nice women, with their high-bred lovers, who
step so daintily through his pages, to the flutter of perfumed fans and
the rustle of fine silks, are as convincing as the palpitantly
convincing princesses of Hans Andersen and Grimm; but Feuillet’s
villains and adventuresses, like the ogres and the witches we never very
heartily believe in, are, for the most part, the merest stereotypes of
vice and wickedness, always artificial, too often a trifle absurd.

In _Monsieur de Camors_, for example, we have an elaborate study of a
man who has determined to live by the succinct principle, "Evil, be thou
my good"—a succinct enough principle, in all conscience, though Feuillet
requires a lengthy chapter and a suicide to enunciate it.  The idea, if
not original, might, in some hands, lend itself to interesting
development; but not so in Feuillet’s.  From the threshold we feel that
he is handicapped by his theme.  It hangs round his neck like the
mill-stone of the adage; it checks his artistic impulses, obscures his
artistic instincts.  The quips and cranks, the wreathed smiles, of
Feuillet the humourist, were out of place in a stupendous epopee of this
sort; so, for the sake of a psychological abstraction, which hasn’t even
the poor merit of novelty, we must look on ruefully, while our merryman,
divested of cap and bells, proses to the end of his four sad hundred
pages.  There are novelists who must work with an abstraction, who can
see their characters and their incidents only as they illustrate an
abstraction; and these also achieve their effects and earn their
rewards.  But Feuillet belongs in a different galley.  A handful of
human nature, a pleasing countryside, and Paris in the distance—these
are his materials.  The philosophy and the plot may come as they will,
and it really doesn’t much matter if they never come at all.  To give
Feuillet a subject is to attach a chain and ball to his pen.  He is
never so debonair, so sympathetic, so satisfying a writer, as when he
has something just short of nothing to write about.

In _Monsieur de Camors_ he has a tremendous deal to write about; his
subject weighs his pen to the earth.  The result is a book that’s a
monstrosity, and a protagonist who’s a monster.  Louis de Camors is as
truly a monster as any green dragon that ever spat fire or stole king’s
daughters (though by no means so exciting a monster), and he hasn’t even
the virtue of being a monster that hangs together.  For, while we are
asked to think of him as destitute of natural affections, he is at the
same time shown to us as the fond idolater of his wife, his wife’s
mother, and his son.  On his son’s account, indeed, he goes so far as to
spend a long cold night in a damp and uncomfortable wood, only to be
dismissed in the morning without the embrace, in the hope of gaining
which he has violated his philosophy and taken the chances of
rheumatism.  Altogether, a man devoid of affections, who loves his son,
his wife, and his mother-in-law, may be regarded as doing pretty well.
Again (since we are on the chapter of inconsistencies), in that dreary
and pompous letter written to Louis by his father, which expounds the
text of what becomes the son’s rule of conduct, he is gravely charged to
fling religion and morality out of the window, but to cherish "honour"
as it were his life.  "It is clear that a materialist can’t be a saint,
but he can be a gentleman, and that is something," complacently writes
the elder Comte de Camors. Louis, however, though he makes loud acts of
faith in this inexpensive gospel, never hesitates to betray his friend,
to seduce the wife of his benefactor, nor to marry an unsuspecting
child, who loves him, for the sheer purpose of screening an intrigue
with "another lady," which he still intends to carry on.  Feuillet,
perhaps, saves his face by heaping upon this impossible being’s head all
the punishments that are poetically due to crime, but he doesn’t save
_Monsieur de Camors_.  It is a dismal volume, uncommonly hard to read.
And yet—art will out; and dismal as it is, it presents to us one of
Feuillet’s most captivating women, Louis de Camors’ ingenuous little
wife.  Listen to her artless pronouncement upon Monsieur’s evangel of
"honour."  "Mon Dieu," she says, "I’m not sure, but it seems to me that
honour apart from morality is nothing very great, and that morality
apart from religion is nothing at all.  It’s like a chain: honour hangs
in the last link, like a flower; but when the chain is broken, the
flower falls with the rest."

If, however, Feuillet’s villains are failures, his adventuresses and bad
women are grotesquer failures still.  And no wonder.  His reluctance to
fashion an ugly thing out of material that would, in the natural course
of his impressions, suggest to him none but ideas of beauty, is quite
enough to account for it.  Octave Feuillet is too much a gentleman, too
much a _preux chevalier_, to be able to get any intellectual
understanding of a bad woman; the actual operations of a bad woman’s
soul are things he can get no "realizing sense" of. So he dresses up a
marionette, which shall do all the wicked feminine things his game
necessitates, which shall plot and poison, wreck the innocent heroine’s
happiness, attitudinize as a fiend in woman’s clothing, and even, at a
pinch, die a violent death, but which shall never let us forget that it
is stuffed with saw-dust and moved by strings. Madame de Campvallon,
Sabine Tallevaut, Mademoiselle Hélouin, even Julia de Trécoeur—the more
they change, the more they are the same: sister-puppets, dolls carved
from a common parent-block, to be dragged through their appointed
careers of improbable naughtiness.  You can recognise them at once by
their haunting likeness to the proud beauties of the hair-dresser’s
window. They are always statuesque, always cold, reserved, mysterious,
serpentlike, goddesslike—everything, in fine, that bad women of flesh
and blood are not. Octave Feuillet, the wit and the man of the world,
knows this as well as we do; and knowing it, he tries, by verbal
fire-works, to make us forget it. "She charms me—she reminds me of a
sorceress," says some one of Sabine Tallevaut.  "Do you notice, she
walks without a sound?  Her feet scarcely touch the earth—she walks like
a somnambulist-like Lady Macbeth."  It is the old trick, the traditional
_boniment_ of the showman; but not all the _boniments_ in Feuillet’s
sack can make us believe in Sabine Tallevaut.

One can recognise Feuillet’s bad women, too, by the uncanny influence
they immediately cast upon his men.  "More taciturn than ever, absent,
strange, as if she were meditating some profound design, all at once she
seemed to wake; she lifted her long lashes, let her blue eyes wander
here and there, and suddenly looked straight at Camors, who was
conscious of a thrill"—that is how Mme. de Campvallon does it, and the
fact is conclusive, so far as her moral character is in question.  None
of Feuillet’s good women would ever dream of making a man "thrill" at
her first encounter with him.  But Feuillet’s bad women will stop at
nothing.  Julia de Trécoeur takes her own step-father, a middle-aged,
plain, stout, prosaic country gentleman, and throws him into a paroxysm
that has to be expressed in this wise: "It was a mad intoxication, which
the savour of guilt only intensified.  Duty, loyalty, honour, whatsoever
presented itself as an obstacle to his passion, did but exasperate its
fury.  The pagan Venus had bitten him in the heart, and injected her
poisons.  A vision of Julia’s fatal beauty was present without surcease,
in his burning brain, before his troubled eyes.  Avidly, in spite of
himself, he drank in her languors, her perfumes, her breath."

_Julia de Trécoeur_ has sometimes been called Feuillet’s master-piece.
One eminent critic remarks that in writing it Feuillet "dived into the
vast ocean of human nature, and brought up a pearl."  Well, there are
pearls and pearls; there are real pearls and artificial pearls; there
are white pearls and black pearls.  It might seem to some of us that
_Julia de Trécoeur_ is an artificial black one.  Frankly, as a piece of
literature, the novel is just in three words a fairly good melodrama.
Julia herself is the proper melodramatic heroine. Her beauty is "fatal,"
her passions are ungovernable, and she dearly loves a scene.  Now she
contemplates retirement into a convent, now matrimony, now a leap from
the cliffs; and each change of mood is inevitably the occasion for much
ranting and much attitudinizing.  Her history is a fairly good
melodrama.  That it is not a tip-top melodrama is due to the
circumstance that Feuillet was too intelligent a man to be able to make
it so.  He can’t keep out his wit; and every now and again his melodrama
forgets itself, and becomes sane comedy.  He can’t keep out his touches
of things simple and human; the high-flown, unhuman remainder suffers
from the contrast.

Why, one wonders, with his flair for the subtleties of the normal, with
his genius for extracting their charm from trifles, why should Feuillet
have turned his hand to melodrama at all?  Is it partly because he lived
in and wrote for a highly melodramatic period—"the dear, good days of
the dear, bad Second Empire"?  Partly, too, no doubt, because, as some
one has said, the artist can never forgive, though he can easily forget,
his limitations.  Like the comic actor who will not be happy till he has
appeared as Hamlet, the novelist, also, will cherish his unreasoning
aspirations.  And then, melodrama is achieved before you know it.  Any
incident that is not in itself essentially _un_dramatic will become
melodramatic, when you try to treat it, it will become forced and
stagey, if dramatic incidents are not the spontaneous issue of your
talent.  Dramatic incidents are far from being the spontaneous issue of
Feuillet’s talent; they are its changelings.  His talent is all
preoccupied in fathering children of a quite opposite complexion.
Style, suavity, elegance, sentiment, colour, atmosphere—these are
Feuillet’s preoccupations.  Action, incident, are, when necessary,
necessary evils.  So his action, when he is at his best, loiters,
saunters, or even stops dead-still; until suddenly he remembers that,
after all, his story must some time reach its period, and that something
really must happen to advance it. Thereupon, hurriedly, perfunctorily,
carelessly, he "knocks off" a few pages of incident—of incident fast and
furious—which will, as likely as not, read like the prompt-book of a
play at the Adelphi.

That absurd Sabine Tallevaut, whose feet scarcely touch the earth, with
poison in her hand and adultery in her heart, is the one disfigurement
upon what might otherwise have been Feuillet’s most nearly perfect
picture.  In spite of her, _La Morte_ remains a work of exquisite and
tender beauty; and I’m not sure whether Aliette de Vaudricourt isn’t the
very queen of all his women. If Feuillet was too much a gentleman to be
able to paint a bad woman, he was too much a man not to revel in
painting a charming one.  As we pass through his gallery of delightful
heroines, from Aliette de Vaudricourt to Clothilde de Lucan, to Mme. de
Técle, Marie FitzGerald, "Miss Mary" de Camors, Marguerite Laroque, even
to Jeanne de Maurescamp, we can feel the man’s admiration pulsing in
every stroke of the artist’s brush.  He takes the woman’s point of view,
espouses her side of the quarrel, offers himself as her champion
wherever he finds that a champion is needed.  And he sticks to his
allegiance even after, as in the case of Jeanne de Maurescamp, she might
seem to have forfeited her claim to it.  Of Jeanne he can still bring
himself to say, at the end of _L’Histoire d’une Parisienne_: "Decidedly,
this angel had become a monster; but the lesson of her too-true story
is, that, in the moral order, no one is born a monster.  God makes no
monsters.  It is man who makes them."

In this instance, however, Feuillet is, perhaps, rather the apologist
than the champion.  His contention is that Jeanne was by nature
virtuous, and that her virtue has been destroyed by the stupidity and
the brutality of her ill-chosen husband.  But Feuillet has too fine and
too judicious a wit to insist upon the note of strenuousness. Seeing the
woman’s point of view, he sees its humours as well as its pathos.
Admitting that men for the most part are grossly unworthy of her, and
that woman has infinitely the worst of it in the arrangements of
society, admitting and deploring it, he doesn’t profess to know how to
set it right; he has no practical reform to preach. His business is to
divert us, and, if he must be serious, to be serious gaily and
charmingly.  And perhaps he is most serious, not when composing an
epitaph for Jeanne de Maurescamp, but when he is lightly saying (in the
person of the Comtesse Jules): "Always remember, my poor dear, that
women are born to suffer—and men to be suffered."

Charmingly serious himself, Feuillet’s heroines likewise are always
serious, in their different charming ways.  They may be wilful and
capricious, like Marguerite Laroque, or fond of the excitements of the
world, like Mme. de Rias, or wise in their generation, like Mme. de la
Veyle, but they are always womanly and human at the red-ripe of the
heart, and they are almost always religious.  A sceptic, scepticlike,
Feuillet utterly discountenances scepticism in woman. Even his most
recusant of masculine unbelievers, the Vicomte de Vaudricourt, proclaims
his preference for a pious wife.  "Not, of course," he says, "that I
exaggerate the moral guarantees offered by piety, or that I mistake it
for a synonym of virtue.  But still it is certain that with women the
idea of duty is rarely dissociated from religious ideas.  Because
religion doesn’t keep all of them straight, it is an error to conclude
that it keeps none of them straight; and it’s always well to be on the
safe side."  Elsewhere Feuillet gives us his notion of the moral outlook
of the woman who is not religious.  Evil for her, he tells us, ceases to
be evil, and becomes simply _inconvenance_. ’Tis a very mannish, a very
Frenchmannish, way of viewing the thing.

One has sometimes heard it maintained that only women can reveal
themselves with perfect grace in a form so intimate as letters or a
diary; that a man’s hand is apt to be too heavy, his manner too
self-conscious.  Perhaps it is Feuillet’s sympathy with women that has
made him the dab he is at this womanly art.  In _La Morte_, for
instance, we learn vastly more of Bernard’s character from his diary
than we should from thrice the number of pages of third-personal
exposition. The letters from Marie to her mother, in _Monsieur de
Camors_, furnish the single element of relief in that lugubrious
composition.  Even those that pass between Rias and Mme. de Lorris, in
_Un Mariage dans le Monde_—though their subject-matter is sufficiently
depressing, though the man is an egotistical cad, and the great lady who
is giving him her help and pity ought rather to despise and spurn
him—are exceedingly good and natural letters; and the letter from Mme.
de Rias to Kévern, which ends the book, is a very jewel of a letter.
But it is in the diary of his poor young man that Feuillet’s command of
the first person singular attains its most completely satisfying
results.

_Le Roman d’un Jeune Homme Pauvre_ is a tale of youth, for the young;
and the eldest of us may count himself still young if he can still enjoy
it. Here we have romance pure and simple, a thing of glamour all
compact; and the danger-line that so definitely separates romance from
absurdity, yet leaves them so perilously near together, is never
crossed.  The action passes in the country, and in the most delectable
sort of country at that—the country of the appreciative and imaginative
cit. Before all things a Parisian, Feuillet is never particularly happy
in presenting Paris.  His Paris is correct enough in architecture and
topography, no doubt; but the spirit of Paris, the whatever it is which
makes Paris Paris, and not merely a large town, somehow evades him.
Possibly he knew his Paris too well; familiarity had bred a kind of
inability to see, to focus, a kind of "staleness."  Anyhow, it is when
he gets away from Paris that he wakes to the opportuneness and the
opportunities of scenic backgrounds.  His eye, "stale" to town, is now
all eagerness, all freshness.  Impressions of beauty crowd upon him.  He
sees the country as it is doubtful whether the countryman ever sees
it—the countryman who has been surfeited with it, who has long since
forgotten its first magical effect.  He brings to the country the
sensitiveness which is the product of the city’s heat and strife. Dew
and wild flowers, the green of grass and trees, the music of birds, the
flutter of their wings, the pure air, the wide prospects, the changing
lights—it is to the appreciative and imaginative townsman that these
speak their finest message.

But Feuillet is more than a townsman: he is a teller of fairy-tales.  To
him the country is a free playground for his fancy.  There beautiful
ladies and gallant knights have nothing to do but to love and to sing;
and there, without destroying our illusion, he can leave them to live
happily forever after.  The Brittany, in which Maxime and Marguerite
meet and misunderstand and woo and wed, is not that northwestern corner
of France that one can reach in a few hours by steamer from Southampton;
it is a Brittany of fairy woods and streams and castles, that never was,
save in the poet’s dream.  For if others of Feuillet’s novels have been
only in part fairy-tales, or only rather like fairy-tales, the _Romance
of a Poor Young Man_ is a fairy-tale wholly and absolutely.  The
personages of the story are the invariable personages of the fairy-tale:
the prince disguised as a wood-cutter, in the Marquis de Champcey
disguised as a farm-bailiff; the haughty princess, who will not love,
yet loves despite her will, and is rewarded by the wood-cutter’s
appearing in all the prince’s splendour at the proper time, in
Marguerite Laroque; the bad prince and the bad princess, in M. de
Bévallon and Mlle. Hélouin; the good magician, in M. Laubépin; and the
delightfullest of conceivable fairy godmothers, in Mlle. de Porhoët.
And the progress of the story is the wonted progress of the fairy-tale.
There is hardship, but it is overcome; there are perils, but they are
turned; misconceptions, but they are cleared up.  There are empty
pockets, but there is the bag of gold waiting to fill them. The
marvellous never shocks our credulity, the longest-armed coincidences
seem the most natural happenings in the world.  We are not in the least
surprised when, at the right moment, the bag of gold appears at Maxime’s
feet, enabling him to marry; it is the foregone consequence of his
having a fairy godmother.  We don’t even raise the eyebrow of doubt when
the Laroques contemplate relinquishing their fortune to the poor, so
that Marguerite may come to her lover empty-handed; that is the accepted
device of the fairy-tale for administering to the proud princess her
well-deserved humiliation.  In one small detail only does the fairy-tale
teller lose himself, and let the novelist supplant him; that is where he
implies that the bad prince and princess, after their wicked wiles had
been discovered, took the train to Paris. They did nothing of the sort.
They were turned into blocks of stone, and condemned to look on at the
happiness of the good prince and princess from the terrace of the
Château de Laroque.

But it must not be supposed, because the personages of the _Romance of a
Poor Young Man_ are fairy-tale personages, that therefore they are not
human personages.  It is, on the contrary, the humanity of its
personages that makes your fairy-tale interesting.  You stick to human
men and women, you merely more or less improve the conditions of their
existence, you merely revise and amend a little the laws of the external
universe—an easy thing to do, in spite of the unthinking people who
prate of those laws as immutable. Then the fun consists in seeing how
human nature will persist and react.  Surely none of Feuillet’s heroines
is more engagingly human than Marguerite Laroque.  It is true that we
see her only through the eyes of a chronicler who happens to be
infatuated with her, but we know what discount to allow for that.  We
are confident from her first entrance that if, as we hope, our poor
young man’s head is screwed on as poor young men’s heads should be,
Marguerite will turn it. We learn that she is capricious, therefore
Maxime will be constant; that she is proud, therefore, in all humility,
he will be prouder; that she is humble, therefore, in all pride, he will
humble himself at her feet.  But antecedent to all this, and just
because his ostensible business in Brittany is the management of the
Laroques’ estate, no one needs to warn us that his real business will be
the conquest of the Laroques’ daughter.  We can foresee with half an eye
that the affairs of the estate are affairs which our disguised marquis
will conscientiously neglect.  Indeed, Mme. Laroque herself seems to
have been haunted by something of the same premonition.  What does she
say to the sous-préfet?  "Mon Dieu, ne m’en parlez pas; il-y-a là un
mystère inconcevable.  Nous pensons que c’est quelque prince déguisé....
Entre nous, mon cher sous-préfet, je crois bien que c’est un
très-mauvais intendant, mais vraiment c’est un homme très-agréable."

She might have added "un homme très-digne."  For if we have a fault to
find with Maxime, it is that he seems just possibly a thought too
"digne."  But that is a fault common to so many men in fiction.  French
novelists, like English lady novelists, are terribly apt to make their
men too "digne"—when they don’t make them too unspeakably _indigne_.
Maxime, however, we mustn’t forget, is his own portraitist, and we’ll
hope in this detail the portrait errs.  For the rest, we are content to
accept it as he paints it.  He is a poor young man, but he is also a
fairy prince.  Therefore he can vaunt himself as an ordinary poor young
man could hardly do with taste.  He can perform and narrate his
prodigies of skill and valour without offending.  He can rescue an
enormous Newfoundland dog from a raging torrent, for example, with the
greatest ease in the world, an exploit you or I might have found
ticklish, and he can tell us of it afterward, a proceeding you or I
might have shrunk from as vainglorious.  For Maxime is a fairy prince;
the dog belongs to the fairy princess; and the bad prince, the rival,
who is standing by, doesn’t know how to swim.  Again, with splendid
indifference, he can accomplish and record his leap from the Tour d’
Elven to save the fairy princess from a situation that might, in
Fairyland, have compromised her; hadn’t the princess unjustly impugned
his honour, and insinuated that the situation was one he had
deliberately brought to pass?  "Monsieur le Marquis de Champcey, y a
t-il eu beaucoup de lâches dans votre famille avant vous?" superbly
demands Marguerite; and we can see her kindling eye, the scornful curl
of her lip, we can hear the disdainful tremor of her voice.  Maxime
would be a poor-spirited poor young man, indeed, if, after that, he
should hesitate to jump.  And he has his immediate compensation.
"Maxime! Maxime!" cries the haughty princess, now all remorse, "par
grâce, par pitié! au nom du bon Dieu, parlez-moi! pardonnez-moi!"  So
that, though the prince goes away with a broken arm, the lover carries
exultancy in his heart.

Is Maxime perhaps just a thought too "digne," also, in his relations
with his little sister—when he visits her at school, for instance, and
promises to convey the bread she cannot eat to some deserving beggar?
At the moment he is the most deserving beggar he chances to know of, but
he is resolved to keep his beggary a secret from Hélène. "Cher Maxime,"
says she, "a bientôt, n’est-ce pas? Tu me diras si tu as rencontré un
pauvre, si tu lui as donné mon pain, et s’il l’a trouvé bon."  And
Maxime, in his journal: "Oui, Hélène, j’ai rencontré un pauvre, et je
lui ai donné ton pain, qu’il a emporté comme une proie dans sa mansarde
solitaire, et il l’a trouvé bon; mais c’était un pauvre sans courage,
car il a pleuré en devorant l’aumône de tes petites mains bien-aimeés.
Je te dirai tout celà, Hélène, car il est bon que tu saches qu’il y a
sur la terre des souffrances plus sérieuses que tes souffrances
d’enfant: je te dirai tout, excepté le nom du pauvre."  It certainly
_is_ "digne," isn’t it? Is it a trifle too much so?  Isn’t it a trifle
priggish, a trifle preachy?  Is it within the limits of pure pathos?  Or
does it just cross the line?  I don’t know.

I am rather inclined to think that Maxime is at his best—at once most
human and most fairy princelike—in his relations with the pre-eminently
human fairy Porhoët.  He is entirely human, and weak, and nice, when he
blurts out to her the secret of his high birth.  Hadn’t she just been
boasting of her own, and invidiously citing Monsieur l’intendant as a
typical plebeian?  "En ce qui me concerne, mademoiselle," he has the
human weakness to retort, "vous vous trompez, car ma famille a eu
l’honneur d’être alliée à la vôtre, et réciproquement."  He remains
human and weak throughout the somewhat embarrassing explanations that
are bound to follow; and if, in their subsequent proceedings, after she
has adopted him as "mon cousin," he will still from time to time become
a trifle priggish and a trifle preachy, we must remember that mortal
man, in the hands of a French novelist, has to choose between that and a
career of profligacy.

It is by his _Roman d’un Jeune Homme Pauvre_ that Feuillet is most
widely known outside of France; it is by this book that he will "live,"
if he is to live.  Certainly it is his freshest, his sincerest, his most
consistently agreeable book.


HENRY HARLAND.




                          *BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE*


Octave Feuillet was born at Saint-Lô, in the department of the Manche,
on the 11th of August, 1821.  His father, who belonged to one of the
oldest Norman families, was secretary-general to the prefect, and a
little later, in the revolution of 1830, played a prominent part in
politics.  A hereditary nervousness, amounting finally to a disease,
alone prevented him, according to Guizot, from being given a portfolio
in the new ministry. Octave inherited his father’s excessive
sensibility, although in later years he held it more under control.
After the death of his mother, which occurred as he was developing in
boyhood, he became so melancholy that, at the advice of the physicians,
he was sent to a school in Paris, where his health gradually became
re-established; afterward, at the Collège de Louis-le-Grand, he greatly
distinguished himself as a scholar.  It was his father’s design to
prepare him for the diplomatic career, but already the desire to write
had awakened itself in him.  When the moment came for choosing a
profession, Octave timidly confessed his determination to make
literature his business in life; the irascible old gentleman at Saint-Lô
turned him out of the house, and cut off his allowance.  He returned to
Paris, and for three years had a hard struggle with poverty.  During
this time, under the encouragement of the great actor Bocage, Octave
Feuillet brought out three dramas, "Échec et Mat," "Palma," and "La
Vieillesse de Richelieu," under the pseudonym of "Désiré Hazard."  These
were successful, and the playwright’s father forgave and welcomed him
back to his favour.  Octave remained in Paris, actively engaged in
literary work, mainly dramatic, but gradually in the line of prose
fiction also.  In 1846 he published his novel of "Polichinelle,"
followed in 1848 by "Onesta," in 1849 by "Redemption" and in 1850 by
"Bellah."  None of these are remembered among Octave Feuillet’s best
works, but he was gaining skill and care in composition.  In 1850,
however, he was suddenly summoned home to Saint-Lô by the increased
melancholy of his father, who could no longer safely be left alone in
the gloomy ancestral mansion which he refused to leave.  Octave, with
resignation, determined to sacrifice his life to the care of his father,
and in this piety he was supported by his charming cousin, Valérie
Feuillet, a very accomplished and devoted woman, whom he married in
1851.  For eight years they shared this painful exile, the father of
Octave scarcely permitting them to leave his sight, and refusing every
other species of society.  Strangely enough, this imprisonment was not
unfavourable to the novelist’s genius; the books he wrote during this
period—"Dalila," "La Petite Comtesse" (1856), "Le Village," and finally
"Le Roman d’un Jeune Homme Pauvre" (1858)—being not only far superior to
what he had previously published, but among the very finest of all his
works.  By a grim coincidence, on almost the only occasion on which
Octave Feuillet ventured to absent himself for a day or two, to be
present at the performance of his "Roman d’un Jeune Homme Pauvre," when
it was dramatized in 1858, the father suddenly died while the son was in
Paris. This was a great shock to Feuillet, who bitterly and unjustly
condemned himself.  He was now, however, free, and, with his wife and
children, he returned to Paris.  He was now very successful, and soon
became a figure at Compiègne and in the great world.  In 1862 he
published "Sibylle," and was elected a member of the French Academy. A
great favourite of the Emperor and Empress, he was tempted to combine
the social life at Court with the labours of literature.  His health
began to suffer from the strain, and, to recover, he retired again to
Saint-Lô, where he lived, not in the home of his ancestors, but in a
little house above the ramparts, called Les Paillers; for the future he
spent only the winter months in Paris.  His novels became fewer, but not
less carefully prepared; he enjoyed a veritable triumph with "Monsieur
de Camors" in 1867.  Next year he was appointed Royal Librarian at
Fontainbleu, an office which he held till the fall of the Empire.  He
then retired to Les Paillers again, where he had written "Julia de
Trécoeur" in 1867.  The end of his life was troubled by domestic
bereavement and loss of health; he hurried restlessly from place to
place, a prey to constant nervous agitation.  His later writings were
numerous, but had not the vitality of those previously mentioned.
Octave Feuillet died in Paris, December 28, 1890, and was succeeded at
the French Academy by Pierre Loti.  Octave was the type of a sensitive,
somewhat melancholy fine gentleman; he was very elegant in manners,
reserved and ceremonious in society, where he held himself somewhat
remote in the radiance of his delicate wit; but within the bosom of his
family he was tenderly and almost pathetically demonstrative. The least
criticism was torture to him, and it is said that when his comedy of "La
Belle au Bois Dormant" was hissed off the boards of the Vaudeville in
1865, for three weeks afterward the life of Feuillet was in danger.
Fortunately, however, for a "fiery particle" so sensitive, the greater
part of his career was one continuous triumph.


E.G.




                        *LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS*


Portrait of Octave Feuillet . . . . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_


                            COLOURED PLATES

"You do not ask me where I am taking you," she said (see page 123)

"I fell on my knees, I could not keep back my tears" (see page 245)

"I felt her lips on mine——I thought my soul was escaping from me" (see
page 246)


                    THE PORTRAITS OF OCTAVE FEUILLET

In 1850, after a drawing by the engraver Monciau

In 1879, after a sketch made in Geneva

After a photograph taken in 1880

The last photograph taken in 1889

Sketch by Dantan, about 1878




                   *THE ROMANCE OF A POOR YOUNG MAN*


                            _Sursum corda!_


                                                PARIS, _April 25, 185-_.

The second evening I have passed in this miserable room, staring
gloomily at the bare hearth, hearing the dull monotone of the street,
and feeling more lonely, more forsaken, and nearer to despair in the
heart of this great city than a ship-wrecked man shivering on a broken
plank in mid-ocean.

I have done with cowardice.  I will look my destiny in the face till it
loses its spectral air. I will open my sorrowful heart to the one
confidant whose pity will not hurt, to that pale last friend who looks
back at me from the glass.  I will write down my thoughts and my life,
not in trivial and childish detail, but without serious omissions, and
above all without lies.  I shall love my journal; it will be a brotherly
echo to cheat my loneliness, and at the same time a second conscience
warning me not to allow anything to enter into my life which I dare not
write down calmly with my own hand.

Now, with sad eagerness I search the past for the facts and incidents
which should have long since enlightened me, had not filial respect,
habit, and the indifference of a happy idler blinded me. I understand
now my mother’s deep and constant melancholy; I understand her distaste
for society, and why she wore that plain, unvaried dress which sometimes
called forth sarcasms, sometimes wrath from my father.—"You look like a
servant," he would say to her.

I could not but be conscious that our family life was broken by more
serious quarrels, though I was never an actual witness of them.  All I
heard were my father’s sharp and imperious tones, the murmur of a
pleading voice, and stifled sobs. These outbursts I attributed to my
father’s violent and fruitless attempts to revive in my mother the taste
for the elegant and brilliant life which she had once enjoyed as much as
becomes a virtuous woman, but into which she now accompanied my father
with a repugnance that grew stronger every day.  After such crises, my
father nearly always ran off to buy some costly trinket which my mother
found in her table-napkin at dinner, and never wore.  One day in the
middle of winter she received a large box of rare flowers from Paris;
she thanked my father warmly, but directly he had left the room, I saw
her slightly raise her shoulders and look up to heaven with an
expression of hopeless despair.

During my childhood and early youth I had a great respect for my father,
but not much affection.  Indeed, throughout this period I saw only the
sombre side of his character—the one side that showed itself in domestic
life, for which he was not fitted.  Later, when I was old enough to go
out with him, I was surprised and charmed to find in him a person
perfectly new to me.  It seemed as if, in our old family house, he felt
himself constrained by some fatal spell; once beyond its doors, his
forehead cleared, his chest expanded, and he was young again.  "Now,
Maxime," he would cry, "now for a gallop!"  And joyously we would rush
along.  His shouts of youthful pleasure, his enthusiasm, his fantastic
wit, his bursts of feeling, charmed my young heart, and I longed to
bring something of all this back to my poor mother, forgotten in her
corner at home.  I began to love my father; and when I saw all the
sympathetic qualities of his brilliant nature displayed in all the
functions of social life—at hunts and races, balls and dinners—my
fondness for him became an actual admiration.  A perfect horseman, a
dazzling talker, a bold gambler, daring and open-handed, he became for
me the finished type of manly grace and chivalrous nobility.  Indeed, he
would speak of himself—smiling with some bitterness—as the last of the
gentlemen.

Such was my father in society; but as soon as he returned to his home my
mother and I saw only a restless, morose, and violent old man.

My father’s outbursts to a creature so sweet and delicate as my mother
would certainly have revolted me had they not been followed by the quick
returns of tenderness and the redoubled attentions I have mentioned.
Justified in my eyes by these proofs of penitence, my father seemed to
be only a naturally kind, warm-hearted man sometimes irritated beyond
endurance by an obstinate and systematic opposition to all his tastes
and preferences.  I thought my mother was suffering from some nervous
derangement.  My father gave me to understand so, though, and as I
thought very properly, he only referred to this subject with great
reserve.

I could not understand what were my mother’s feelings towards my father;
they were—for me—beyond analysis or definition.  Sometimes a strange
severity glittered in the looks she fixed on him; but it was only a
flash, and the next moment her beautiful soft eyes and her unchanged
face showed nothing but tender devotion and passionate submission.

My mother had been married at fifteen, and I was nearly twenty-two when
my sister, my poor Hélène, was born.  One morning soon afterwards my
father came out of my mother’s room looking anxious.  He signed to me to
follow him into the garden.

"Maxime," he said, after walking in silence for a little, "your mother
gets stranger and stranger."

"She is so ill just now, father."

"Yes, of course.  But now she has the oddest fancy: she wants you to
study law."

"Law!  What!  Does my mother want me, at my age, with my birth and
position, to sit among school-boys on the forms of a college classroom?
It is absurd."

"So I think," said my father dryly, "but your mother is ill, and—there’s
no more to be said."

I was a young puppy then, puffed up by my name, my importance, and my
little drawing-room successes; but I was sound at heart, and I
worshipped my mother, with whom I had lived for twenty years in the
closest intimacy possible between two human souls.  I hastened to assure
her of my obedience; she thanked me with a sad smile and made me kiss my
sister who was sleeping on her lap.

We lived about a mile and a half from Grenoble, so I could attend the
law classes at the university without leaving home.  Day by day my
mother followed my progress with such intense and persistent interest
that I could not help thinking that she had some stronger motive than
the fancy of an invalid; that perhaps my father’s hatred and contempt
for the practical and tedious side of life might have brought about a
certain embarrassment in our affairs which, my mother thought, a
knowledge of law and a business training would enable me to put right.
This explanation did not satisfy me.  No doubt my father had often
complained bitterly of our losses during the Revolution, but his
complaints had long ceased, and I had never thought them well-founded,
because, as far as I could see, our position was in every way
satisfactory.

We lived near Grenoble in our hereditary château, which was famous in
our country as an aristocratic and lordly dwelling.  My father and I
have often shot or hunted for a whole day without going off our own land
or out of our own woods. Our stables were vast, and filled with
expensive horses of which my father was very fond and very proud.
Besides, we had a town-house in Paris on the Boulevard des Capucines,
where comfortable quarters were always reserved for occasional visits.
And nothing in our ordinary way of living could suggest either a small
income or close management. Even as regards the table, my father
insisted upon a particular degree of delicacy and refinement.

My mother’s health declined almost imperceptibly. In time there came an
alteration in her disposition.  The mouth which, at all events in my
presence, had spoken only kind words, grew bitter and aggressive.  Every
step I took beyond the house provoked a sarcasm.  My father was not
spared, and bore these attacks with a patience that seemed to me
exemplary, but he got more and more into the habit of living away from
home. He told me that he must have distraction and amusement.  He always
wanted me to go with him, and my love of pleasure, and the eagerness of
youth, and, to speak truly, my lack of moral courage, made me obey him
too readily.

In September, 185-, there were some races near the château, and several
of my father’s horses were to run.  We started early and lunched on the
course.  About the middle of the day, as I was riding by the course
watching the fortunes of a race, one of our men came up and said he had
been looking for me for more than half an hour. He added that my father
had already been sent for and had gone back to my mother at the château,
and that he wanted me to follow him at once.

"But what in Heaven’s name is the matter?"

"I think madame is worse," said the servant.

I set off like a madman.

When I reached home my sister was playing on the lawn in the middle of
the great, silent courtyard.  As I dismounted, she ran up to embrace me,
and said, with an air of importance and mystery that was almost joyful:

"The curé has come."

I did not, however, perceive any unusual animation in the house, nor any
signs of disorder or alarm.  I went rapidly up the staircase, and had
passed through the boudoir which communicated with my mother’s room,
when the door opened softly, and my father appeared.  I stopped in front
of him; he was very pale, and his lips were trembling.

"Maxime," he said, without looking at me, "your mother is asking for
you."

I wished to question him, but he checked me with a gesture, and walked
hurriedly towards a window, as if to look out.  I entered.  My mother
lay half-reclining in an easy-chair, one of her arms hanging limply over
the side.  Again I saw on her face, now as white as wax, the exquisite
sweetness and delicate grace which lately had been driven away by
suffering.  Already the Angel of Eternal Rest was casting the shadow of
his wing over that peaceful brow.  I fell upon my knees; she half-opened
her eyes, raised her drooping head with an effort, and enveloped me in a
long, loving look.  Then, in a voice which was scarcely more than a
broken sigh, she slowly spoke these words:

"Poor child! ... I am worn out, you see! Do not weep.  You have deserted
me a little lately, but I have been so trying.  We shall meet again,
Maxime, and we shall understand one another, my son.  I can’t say any
more....  Remind your father of his promise to me....  And you, Maxime,
be strong in the battle of life, and forgive the weak."

She seemed to be exhausted, and stopped for a moment.  Then, raising a
finger with difficulty, and looking at me fixedly, she said: "Your
sister!"

Her livid eyelids closed; then suddenly she opened them, and threw out
her arms with a rigid and sinister gesture.  I uttered a cry; my father
came quickly, and, with heartrending sobs, pressed the poor martyr’s
body to his bosom.

Some weeks later, at the formal request of my father, who said that he
was obeying the last wishes of her whom we mourned, I left France, and
began that wandering life which I have led nearly up to this day.
During a year’s absence my heart, becoming more affectionate as the
selfish frenzy of youth burnt out, urged me to return and renew my life
at its source, between my mother’s tomb and my sister’s cradle.  But my
father had fixed the duration of my travels, and he had not brought me
up to treat his wishes lightly.  He wrote to me affectionately, though
briefly, showing no desire to hasten my return.  So I was the more
alarmed when I arrived at Marseilles, two months ago, and found several
letters from him, all feverishly begging me to return at once.

It was on a sombre February evening, that I saw once more the massive
walls of our ancient house standing out against the light veil of snow
that lay upon the country.  A sharp north wind blew in icy gusts; flakes
of frozen sleet dropped like dead leaves from the trees of the avenue,
and struck the wet soil with a faint and plaintive sound.  As I entered
the court a shadow, which I took to be my father’s, fell upon a window
of the large drawing-room on the ground floor—a room which had not been
used during my mother’s last days.  I hurried on, and my father, seeing
me, gave a hoarse cry, then opened his arms to me, and I felt his heart
beating wildly against my own.

"Thou art frozen, my poor child," he said, much against his habit, for
he seldom addressed me in the second person.  "Warm thyself, warm
thyself.  This is a cold room, but I prefer it now; at least one can
breathe here."

"Are you well, father?"

"Pretty well, as you see."

Leaving me by the fireplace, he resumed his walk across the vast
_salon_, dimly lighted by two or three candles.  I seemed to have
interrupt this walk of his.  This strange welcome alarmed me.  I looked
at my father in dull surprise.

"Have you seen my horses?" he said suddenly, without stopping.

"But, father——"

"Ah, yes, of course, you’ve only just come."  After a silence he
continued.  "Maxime," he said, "I have something to tell you."

"I’m listening, father."

He did not seem to hear me, but walked about a little, and kept on
repeating, "I have something to tell you, my son."  At last he sighed
deeply, passed his hand across his forehead, and sitting down suddenly,
signed to me to take a seat opposite to him.  Then, as if he wanted to
speak and had not the courage to do so, his eyes rested on mine, and I
read in them an expression of suffering, humility, and supplication that
in a man so proud as my father touched me deeply.  Whatever the faults
he found it so hard to confess, I felt from the bottom of my heart that
he was fully pardoned.

Suddenly his eyes, which had never left mine, were fixed in an
astonished stare, vague and terrible.  His hand stiffened on my arm; he
raised himself in his chair, then drooped, and in an instant fell
heavily on the floor.  He was dead.

The heart does not reason or calculate.  That is its glory.  In a moment
I had divined everything. One minute had been enough to show me all at
once, and without a word of explanation—in a burst of irresistible
light, the fatal truth which a thousand things daily repeated under my
eyes had never made me suspect.  Ruin was here, in this house, over my
head.  Yet I do not think that I should have mourned my father more
sincerely or more bitterly if he had left me loaded with benefits.  With
my regret and my deep sorrow there was mingled a pity, strangely
poignant in that it was the pity of a son for his father. That
beseeching, humbled, hopeless look haunted me.  Bitterly I regretted
that I had not been able to speak a word of consolation to that heart
before it broke!  Wildly I called to him who could no longer hear me, "I
forgive you, I forgive you."  My God, what moments were these! As far as
I have been able to guess, my mother, when she was dying, had made my
father promise to sell the greater part of his property; to pay off the
whole of the enormous debt he had incurred by spending every year a
third more than his income, and to live solely and strictly on what he
had left.  My father had tried to keep to this engagement; he had sold
the timber and part of the estate, but finding himself master of a
considerable capital, he had applied only a small portion of it to the
discharge of his debts, and had attempted to restore our fortunes by
staking the remainder in the hateful chances of the Stock Exchange.  He
had thus completed his ruin.  I have not yet sounded the depths of the
abyss in which we are engulfed.  A week after my father’s death I was
taken seriously ill, and after two months of suffering I was only just
able to leave my ancient home on the day that a stranger took possession
of it.  Fortunately an old friend of my mother’s, who lives at Paris,
and who formerly acted as notary to our family, has come to my help.  He
has offered to undertake the work of liquidation which to my
inexperienced judgment seemed beset with unconquerable difficulties.  I
left the whole business to him, and I presume that now his work is
completed.  I went to his house directly I arrived yesterday; he was in
the country, and will not return till to-morrow.

These have been two cruel days; uncertainty is the worst of all evils,
because it is the only one that necessarily stops the springs of action
and checks our courage.  I should have been very much surprised if, ten
years ago, any one had told me that the old notary, whose formal
language and stiff politeness so much amused my father and me, would one
day be the oracle from whom I should await the supreme sentence of my
destiny.

I do my best to guard against excessive hopes; I have calculated
approximately that, after paying all the debts, we should have a hundred
and twenty to a hundred and fifty thousand francs left.  A fortune of
five millions should leave so much salvage at least.  I intend to take
ten thousand francs and seek my fortune in the new States of America;
the rest I shall resign to my sister.

Enough of writing for to-night.  Recalling such memories is a mournful
occupation.  Nevertheless, I feel that it has made me calmer.  Work is
surely a sacred law, since even the lightest task discharged brings a
certain contentment and serenity.  Yet man does not love work; he cannot
fail to see its good effects; he tastes them every day, and blesses
them, and each day he comes to his work with the same reluctance.  I
think that is a singular and mysterious contradiction, as if in toil we
felt at once a chastisement, and the divine and fatherly hand of the
chastiser.


                                                              _Thursday_

When I woke this morning a letter from old M. Laubépin was brought to
me.  He invited me to dinner and apologized for taking such a liberty.
He said nothing about my affairs.  I augured unfavourably from this
silence.

In the meantime I fetched my sister from her convent, and took her about
Paris.  The child knows nothing of our ruin.  In the course of the day
she had some rather expensive fancies.  She provided herself liberally
with gloves, pink note-paper, bonbons for her friends, delicate scents,
special soaps, and tiny pencils, all very necessary useful things, but
not as necessary as a dinner. May she never have to realize this!

At six o’clock I was at M. Laubépin’s in the Rue Cassette.  I do not
know our old friend’s age, but to-day I found him looking just the same
as ever—tall and thin, with a little stoop, untidy white hair, and
piercing eyes under bushy black eyebrows—altogether a face at once
strong and subtle.  I recognised the unvarying costume, the
old-fashioned black coat, the professional white cravat, the family
diamond in the shirt-frill—in short, all the outward signs of a serious,
methodical, and conservative nature.  The old gentleman was waiting for
me at the open door of his little _salon_.  After making me a low bow,
he took my hand lightly between two of his fingers and conducted me to a
homely looking old lady who was standing by the fire-place.

"The Marquis de Champcey d’Hauterive!" said M. Laubépin, in his strong,
rich, and emphatic voice, and turning quickly to me, added in a humbler
tone, "Mme. Laubépin!"

We sat down.  An awkward silence ensued. I had expected an immediate
explanation of my position.  Seeing that this was to be postponed, I
assumed at once that it was unfavourable, an assumption confirmed by the
discreet and compassionate glances with which Mme. Laubépin furtively
honoured me.  As for M. Laubépin, he observed me with a remarkable
attention not altogether kindly.  My father, I remember, always
maintained that at the bottom of his heart and under his respectful
manner the ceremonious old scrivener had a little of _bourgeois_
democratic and even Jacobin leaven.  It seemed to me that this leaven
was working just now, and that the old man found some satisfaction for
his secret antipathies in the spectacle of a gentleman under torture.
In spite of my real depression, I began to talk at once, trying to
appear quite unconcerned.

"So, M. Laubépin," I said, "you’ve left the Place des Petits-Pères, the
dear old Place.  How could you bring yourself to do it?  I would never
have believed it of you."

"_Mon Dieu_, marquis," replied M. Laubépin, "I must admit that it is an
infidelity unbecoming at my age; but in giving up the practice I had to
give up my chambers as well, for one can’t carry off a notary’s plate as
one can a sign-board."

"But you still undertake some business?"

"Yes, in a friendly way, marquis.  Some of the honourable families, the
important families, whose confidence I have had the good fortune to
secure in the course of forty-five years of practice, are still glad,
especially in situations of unusual delicacy, to have the benefit of my
experience, and I believe I may say they rarely regret having followed
my advice."

As M. Laubépin finished this testimonial to his own merits, an old
servant came in and announced that dinner was served.  It was my
privilege to conduct Mme. Laubépin into the adjacent dining-room.
Throughout the meal the conversation never rose above the most ordinary
commonplaces.  M. Laubépin continued to look at me in the same
penetrating and ambiguous manner, while Mme. Laubépin offered me each
dish in the mournful and compassionate tone we use at the bedside of an
invalid.  In time we left the table, and the old notary took me into his
study, where coffee was served immediately.  He made me sit down, and
standing before the fireplace, began:

"Marquis," he said, "you have done me the honour of intrusting to me the
administration of the estate of your father, the late Marquis de
Champcey d’Hauterive.  Yesterday I was about to write to you, when I
learned of your arrival in Paris.  This enables me to convey to you,
_vivâ voce_, the result of my zeal and of my action."

"I foresee, M. Laubépin, that the result is not favourable."

"Marquis, it is not favourable, and you will need all your courage to
bear it.  But it is my rule to proceed methodically.—In the year 1820
Mlle. Louise Hélène Dugald Delatouche d’Erouville was sought in marriage
by Charles-Christian Odiot, Marquis de Champcey d’Hauterive.  A
tradition a century old had placed the management of the Dugald
Delatouche affairs in my hands, and I was further permitted a respectful
intimacy with the young heiress of the house.  I thought it my duty,
therefore, to oppose her infatuation by every argument in my power and
to dissuade her from this deplorable alliance.  I say deplorable
alliance without reference to M. de Champcey’s fortune, which was nearly
equal to that of Mlle. Delatouche, though even at this time he had
mortgaged it to some extent.  I say so because I knew his character and
temperament, which were in the main hereditary.  Under the fascinating
and chivalrous manner common to all of his race I saw clearly the
heedless obstinacy, the incurable irresponsibility, the mania for
pleasure, and, finally, the pitiless selfishness."

"Sir," I interrupted sharply, "my father’s memory is sacred to me, and
so it must be to every one who speaks of him in my presence."

"Sir," replied the old man with a sudden and violent emotion, "I respect
that sentiment, hut when I speak of your father I find it hard to forget
that he was the man who killed your mother, that heroic child, that
saint, that angel!"

I had risen in great agitation.  M. Laubépin, who had taken a few steps
across the room, seized my arm.  "Forgive me, young man," he said to me.
"I loved your mother and wept for her. You must forgive me."  Then
returning to the fire-place, he continued in his usual solemn tone:

"I had the honour and the pain of drawing up your mother’s marriage
contract.

"In spite of my remonstrance, the strict settlement of her property upon
herself had not been adopted, and it was only with much difficulty that
I got included in the deed a protective clause by which about a third of
your mother’s estate could not be sold, except with her consent duly and
legally authenticated.  A useless precaution, marquis; I might call it
the cruel precaution of an ill-advised friendship.  This fatal clause
brought most intolerable sufferings to the very person whose peace it
was intended to secure.  I refer to the disputes and quarrels and
wrangles the echo of which must sometimes have reached your ears, and in
which, bit by bit, your mother’s last heritage—her children’s bread—was
torn from her!"

"Spare me, M. Laubépin!"

"I obey....  I will speak only of the present. Directly I was honoured
with your confidence, marquis, my first duty was to advise you not to
accept the encumbered estate unless after paying all liabilities."

"Such a course seemed to cast a slur on my father’s memory, and I could
not adopt it."

M. Laubépin darted one of his inquisitorial glances at me, and
continued:

"You are apparently aware that by not having availed yourself of this
perfectly legal method, you became responsible for all liabilities, even
if they exceed the value of the estate itself.  And that, it is my
painful duty to tell you, is the case in the present instance.  You will
see by these documents that after getting exceptionally favourable terms
for the town-house, you and your sister are still indebted to your
father’s creditors to the amount of forty-five thousand francs."

I was utterly stunned by this news, which far exceeded my worst
apprehensions.  For a minute I stared at the clock without seeing the
hour it marked, and listened dazed to the monotonous sound of the
pendulum.

"Now," continued M. Laubépin, after a silence, "the moment has come to
tell you, marquis, that your mother, in view of contingencies which are
unfortunately realized to-day, deposited with me some jewels which are
valued at about fifty thousand francs.  To exempt this small sum, now
your sole resource, from the claims of the creditors of the estate, we
can, I believe, make use of the legal resource which I shall have the
honour of submitting to you."

"That will not be necessary, M. Laubépin.  I am only too glad to be
able, through this unexpected means, to pay my father’s debts in full,
and I beg you to devote it to that purpose."

  M. Laubépin bowed slightly.

"As you wish, marquis," he said, "but I must point out to you that when
this deduction has been made, the joint fortune of Mlle. Hélène and
yourself will consist of something like four or five thousand livres,
which, at the present rate of interest, will give you an income of two
hundred and twenty-five francs.  That being so, may I venture to ask in
a confidential, friendly, and respectful way whether you have thought of
any way of providing for your own existence and for that of your ward
and sister?  And, generally, what your plans are?"

"I tell you frankly I have none.  Whatever plans I may have had are
quite impossible in the state of destitution to which I am now reduced.
If I were alone in the world I should enlist, but I have my sister, and
I cannot endure the thought of seeing the poor child subjected to toil
and privations.  She is happy in the convent and young enough to stay
there some years longer.  I would gladly accept any employment which
would enable me, by the strictest personal economy, to pay her expenses
each year and provide for her dowry in the future."

  M. Laubépin looked hard at me.

"At your age, marquis, you must not expect," he replied, "to achieve
that praiseworthy object by entering the slow ranks of public officials
and governmental functionaries.  You require an appointment which will
assure you from the outset a yearly revenue of five or six thousand
francs. And I must also tell you that this desideratum is not, in the
present state of our social organization, to be obtained by simply
holding out your hand.  Happily, I am in a position to make some
propositions to you which are likely to modify your present situation
immediately and without much trouble."

M. Laubépin fixed his eyes on me more penetratingly than ever.

"In the first place, marquis," he went on, "I am the mouthpiece of a
clever, rich, and influential speculator.  This personage has originated
an idea for an important undertaking, the nature of which will be
explained to you at a later period.  Its success largely depends on the
co-operation of the aristocracy of this country.  He believes that an
old and illustrious name like yours, marquis, appearing among the
originators of the enterprise, would have great weight with the special
public to whom the prospectus will be addressed.  In return for this
service, he engages to hand over to you a certain number of fully
paid-up shares, which are now valued at ten thousand francs, and which
will be worth two or three times that amount when the affair is well
launched.  In addition, he——"

"That is enough, M. Laubépin.  Such infamies are unworthy of the trouble
you take in mentioning them."

For a moment I saw his eyes flash and sparkle. The stiff folds in his
face relaxed as he smiled faintly.

"If you do not approve of this proposition, marquis," he said
unctuously, "neither do I. However, I thought it was my duty to submit
it for your consideration.  Here is another, which, perhaps, will please
you more, and which is really more attractive.  One of my oldest clients
is a worthy merchant who has lately retired from business, and now
passes his life with an only and much-loved daughter, in the quiet
enjoyment of an _aurea mediocritas_ of twenty-five thousand francs a
year.  Two or three days ago my client’s daughter, by some accident,
heard of your position.  I thought it right—indeed, to speak frankly, I
was at some trouble—to ascertain that the young lady would not hesitate
for a moment to accept the title of Marquise de Champcey. Her appearance
is agreeable, and she has many excellent qualities.  Her father
approves.  I await only a word from you, marquis, to tell you the name
and residence of this interesting family."

"M. Laubépin, this quite decides me; from to-morrow I shall cease to use
a title which is ridiculous for one in my position, and which, it seems,
makes me the object of the most paltry intrigues.  My family name is
Odiot, and henceforth I shall use no other.  And now, though I recognise
gratefully the keen interest in my welfare which has induced you to be
the channel of such remarkable propositions, I must beg you to spare me
any others of a like character."

"In that case, marquis, I have absolutely nothing more to tell you,"
said M. Laubépin, and, as if suddenly taken with a fit of joviality, he
rubbed his hands together with a noise like the crackling of parchment.

"You are a difficult man to place, M. Maxime," he added, smiling.  "Oh,
very difficult! It is remarkable that I should not have already noticed
your striking likeness to your mother, particularly your eyes and your
smile ... but we must not digress; and, since you are resolved to
maintain yourself by honest work, may I ask what are your talents and
qualifications?"

"My education, monsieur, was naturally that of a man destined for a life
of wealth and case. However, I have studied law, and am nominally a
barrister."

"A barrister!  The devil you are!  But the name is not enough.  At the
bar, more than in any other career, everything depends on personal
effort; and now—let us see—do you speak well, marquis?"

"So badly that I believe I am incapable of putting two sentences
together in public."

"H’m!  Scarcely what one could call a heaven-born orator.  You must try
something else; but the matter requires more careful consideration. I
see you are tired, marquis.  Here are your papers, which you can examine
at your leisure. I have the honour to wish you farewell.  Allow me to
light you down.  A moment—am I to await your further instructions before
applying the value of those jewels to the payment of your creditors?"

"Oh, by no means.  But I should wish you rather to deduct a just
remuneration for your kind exertions."

We had reached the landing of the staircase; M. Laubépin, who stooped a
little as he walked, sharply straightened himself.

"So far as your creditors are concerned," he said, "you may count upon
my obedience, marquis. As to me, I was your mother’s friend, and I beg
humbly but earnestly that her son will treat me as a friend."

I gave my hand to the old gentleman; he shook it warmly and we parted.

Back in the little room I now occupy, under the roof of the _hôtel_,
which is mine no longer, I wished to convince myself that the full
knowledge of my misery had not depressed me to a degree unworthy of a
man.  So I have sat down to write an account of this decisive day of my
life, endeavouring to preserve exactly the phraseology of the old
notary, a mixture of stiffness and courtesy, of mistrust and kind
feeling, which more than once made me smile, though my heart was
bleeding.

I am face to face with poverty.  Not the haughty, hidden, and poetic
poverty that among forests and deserts and savannas fired my
imagination, but actual misery, need, dependence, humiliation, and
something worse even—the poverty of the rich man who has fallen; poverty
in a decent coat; the poverty that hides its ungloved hands from the
former friends it passes in the street.  Come, brother, courage,
courage...!


                                                   _Monday, April 27th_.

For five days I have been waiting in vain for news of M. Laubépin.  I
had counted considerably on the interest that he had appeared to feel in
me.  His experience, his business connections, and the number of people
he knows, would enable him to be of service to me.  I was ready to take
all necessary steps under his direction, but, left to myself, I do not
know which way to turn.  I thought he was one of the men who promise
little and do much.  I am afraid that I have been mistaken.  This
morning I determined to go to his house on the pretext of returning the
papers he had given me, after verifying their dreary exactitude.  I was
told that he had gone to enjoy a taste of country life at some château
in the heart of Brittany.  He would be away two or three days longer.  I
was completely taken aback.  I had not only the pain of finding
indifference and desertion where I had looked for the readiness of
devoted friendship, I had, in addition, the bitter disappointment of
returning, as I went, with an empty purse.  I had, in fact, intended to
ask M. Laubépin to advance me some money from the three or four thousand
francs due to us after full payment of our debts. In vain have I lived
like an anchorite since came to Paris.  The small sum I had reserved for
my journey is completely exhausted—so completely that, after making a
truly pastoral breakfast this morning—_castanceæ molles et pressi copia
lactis_—I was obliged to have recourse to a kind of trickery for my
dinner to-night.  I will make melancholy record of it here.

The less one has had for breakfast, the more one wants for dinner.  I
had felt all the force of this axiom long before the sun had finished
its course.  Among the strollers whom the mild air had attracted to the
Tuileries this afternoon to watch the first smiles of spring playing on
the faces of the marble fauns, the observant might have noted a young
man of irreproachable appearance who seemed to study the awakening of
nature with extraordinary interest.  Not satisfied with devouring the
fresh verdure with his eyes, he would furtively detach the young,
appetizing shoots and the half-opened leaves from their stems, and put
them to his lips with the curiosity of a botanist.  I convinced myself
in this way that this form of nourishment, suggested by accounts of
shipwrecks, is of very little value. Still, I enriched my experience
with some interesting discoveries: for instance, I know now that the
foliage of the chestnut has an exceedingly bitter taste; that the rose
is not unpleasant; that the lime is oily and rather agreeable; the lilac
pungent—and I believe unwholesome.

Meditating on these discoveries, I walked towards Hélène’s convent.  I
found the parlour as crowded as a hive, and I was more than usually
bewildered by the tumultuous confidences of the young bees.  Hélène
arrived, her hair in disorder, her cheeks flushed, her eyes red and
sparkling.  In her hand she had a piece of bread as long as her arm.  As
she embraced me in an absent way, I asked:

"Well, little girl, what is the matter?  You’ve been crying."

"No, Maxime, no, it’s nothing."

"Well, what is it?  Now tell me...."

In a lower tone she said:

"Oh, I am very miserable, dear Maxime!"

"Really?  Tell me all about it while you eat your bread."

"Oh, I shall certainly not eat my bread.  I am too miserable to eat.
You know Lucy—Lucy Campbell, my dearest friend.  Well, we’ve quarrelled
completely."

"Oh, _mon Dieu_!  Don’t worry, darling, you’ll make it up.  It will be
all right, dear."

"Oh, Maxime, that’s impossible.  It was such a serious quarrel.  It was
nothing at first, but you know one gets excited and loses one’s head.
Listen, Maxime!  We were playing battledore, and Lucy made a mistake
about the score.  I was six hundred and eighty, and she was only six
hundred and fifteen, and she declared she was six hundred and
sixty-five!  You must say that was a little too bad.  Of course I said
my figure was right, and she said hers was.  ’Well, mademoiselle,’ I
said to her, ’let us ask these young ladies.  I appeal to them.’  ’No,
mademoiselle,’ she replied, ’I am sure I am right, and you don’t play
fair.’  ’And—and you, mademoiselle,’ I said to her—’you are a liar!’
’Very well, mademoiselle,’ she said then, ’I despise you too much to
answer you.’  Just at that moment Sister Sainte-Félix came up, which was
a good thing, for I am sure I should have hit her.  Now, you know what
happened.  Can we possibly make it up? No, it is impossible; it would be
cowardly. But I can’t tell you how I suffer.  I don’t believe there’s
any one in the world so miserable as I am."

"Yes, dear, it’s difficult to imagine anything more distressing; but it
seems to me that you partly brought it on yourself, for it was you who
used the most offensive word.  Tell me, is Lucy in the parlour?"

"Yes, there she is, in the corner."

With a dignified and careful movement of her head she indicated a very
fair little girl.  Her cheeks, too, were flushed, and her eyes were red.
Apparently she was giving an account of the drama, which Sister
Sainte-Félix had so fortunately interrupted, to an old lady who was
listening attentively.

Mlle. Lucy, while she talked with an earnestness appropriate to the
subject, kept looking furtively at Hélène and me.

"Dear child," I said to Hélène, "do you trust me?"

"Yes, Maxime, I trust you very much."

"In that case I will tell you what to do.  Go very gently behind Mlle.
Lucy’s chair; take her head in your hands—like this, when she is not
looking—and kiss her on both cheeks—like this, with all your might—and
then you will see what she will do in her turn."

For a second or two Hélène seemed to hesitate; then she set off at a
great rate, fell like a thunder-clap on Mlle. Campbell, but nevertheless
gave her the sweetest of surprises.  The two young sufferers, at last
eternally united, mingled their tears in a touching group, while the
respectable old Mrs. Campbell blew her nose with a noise as of a
bagpipe.

Hélène came back to me radiant.

"Well, dear," I said, "I hope you’re going to eat your bread now."

"Oh, no!  I can’t, Maxime.  I am too much excited, and—besides, I must
tell you—to-day a new pupil came and gave us quite a feast of meringues,
éclairs, and chocolate-creams, and I am not a bit hungry.  And I am in a
great difficulty about it, because when we’re not hungry we have to put
our bread back in the basket, and in my trouble I forgot, and I shall be
punished.  But, Maxime, as we’re crossing the court when you go, I shall
try to drop it down the cellar without any one seeing.

"What, little sister!" I said, colouring a little, "you are going to
waste that large piece of bread?"

"It isn’t good of me I know, because, perhaps, there are poor people who
would be very glad of it, aren’t there, Maxime?"

"There certainly are, dear."

"But what do you want me to do?  The poor people don’t come in here."

"Look here, Hélène, give me the bread, and I’ll give it in your name to
the first poor man I meet.  Will you?"

"Oh, yes!"

The bell rang for school.  I broke the bread in two and hid the pieces
shamefacedly in my great coat pockets.

"Dear Maxime," said my sister, "you’ll come again soon, won’t you?  Then
you’ll tell me whether you met a poor man and gave him my bread, and
whether he liked it?  Good-bye, Maxime."

"Yes, Hélène, I met a poor man and gave him your bread, which he seized
and carried off to his solitary garret, and he liked it.  But this poor
man had not courage, for he wept as he ate the food that had come from
your dear little hands. I will tell you all this, Hélène, because it is
good for you to know that there are sufferings more serious than your
childish woes.  I will tell you everything, except the name of the poor
man."


                                                  _Tuesday, April 28th_.

At nine o’clock this morning I called at M. Laubépin’s in the vague hope
that he might have returned earlier than he intended, but he is not
expected until to-morrow.  I thought at once of seeing Mme. Laubépin and
explaining the awkward position I was placed in through her husband’s
absence.  While I hesitated in a conflict of shame and necessity, the
old servant, alarmed, perhaps, by my hungry gaze, settled the question
by suddenly shutting the door.  I made up my mind hereupon to fast until
the next day.  After all, I said to myself, a day’s abstinence does not
kill one.  If this showed an excessive pride, at all events I was the
only one to suffer, and consequently it concerned no one but myself.  I
accordingly made my way to the Sorbonne, where I attended several
lectures, trying to fill up my corporeal vacuum by spiritual sustenance.
But when this resource came to an end I found it had been quite
inadequate.  And I had an attack of nervous irritation which I tried to
calm by walking. It was a cold, misty day.  As I crossed the Pont des
Saints-Pères I stopped for a minute in spite of myself.  Leaning on the
parapet, I watched the troubled water rushing under the arches.  I know
not what unholy thoughts shot through my worn and weakened brain.  I saw
in the gloomiest colours a future of ceaseless struggle, of dependence,
and of humiliation, which I was approaching by the dark gate of hunger;
I felt a profound and utter disgust of life; it seemed impossible to me
under such conditions.  At the same time a flame of fierce and brutal
anger leaped up in me. Dazed and reeling, I hung over the void, and saw
all the river glittering with sparks of fire.

I will not say, as is usual, God would not have it so.  I hate these
cant phrases, and I dare to say _I_ would not.  God has made us free,
and if ever before I had doubted it, this supreme moment—when soul and
body, courage and cowardice, good and evil, held mortal combat within
me—would have swept my doubts away forever.

Master of myself again, those terrible waves only suggested an innocent,
and rather absurd longing to quench the thirst that tortured me.  I soon
remembered that I should find much purer water in my room at home.  I
went quickly towards the _hôtel_, imagining that the most delicious
pleasures awaited me there.  With pathetic childishness I delighted in
this glorious device, and wondered I had not thought of it sooner.  On
the boulevard I suddenly came face to face with Gaston de Vaux, whom I
had not seen for two years.  After a moment’s hesitation he stopped,
grasped my hand cordially, said a word or two about my travels, and left
me hurriedly.  But he turned back.

"My friend," he said to me, "you must allow me to let you share a piece
of good luck I’ve just had.  I have put my hand on a treasure; I have
got some cigars which cost me two francs each, but really they are
beyond price.  Here’s one; you must tell me how you like it.  _An
revoir_, old man!"

Wearily I mounted the six flights to my room, and trembling with
emotion, I seized my friendly water-bottle and swallowed the contents in
small mouthfuls.  Afterward I lighted my friend’s cigar, and smiled
encouragement at myself in the glass.  Feeling that movement and the
distraction of the streets were good for me, I went out again directly.
Opening my door, I was surprised and annoyed to see the wife of the
concierge of the _hôtel_ standing in the narrow corridor.  My sudden
appearance seemed to disconcert her.  This woman had formerly been in my
mother’s service, and had become a favourite with her, and when she
married, my mother had given her the profitable post she still held.
For some days I had an idea that she was watching me, and now, having
nearly caught her in the act, I asked her roughly what she wanted.

"Oh, nothing, M. Maxime, nothing," she replied, much confused.  "I was
seeing to the gas."

I shrugged my shoulders and went away.

Night was falling, so I could walk about in the more frequented places
without being fearful of awkward recognitions.  I was obliged to throw
away my cigar—it made me feel sick.  My promenade lasted two or three
hours, and painful hours they were.  There is something peculiarly
poignant in feeling oneself attacked, in the midst of the brilliance and
plenty of civilization, by the scourge of savage life—hunger.  It brings
you near to madness.  It’s a tiger springing at your throat in the
middle of the boulevards.

I made some original reflections.  Hunger, after all, is not an empty
word.  There actually is a complaint of that name, and there are human
beings who endure nearly every day what through a mere accident I am
suffering for once in my life. And how many have their misery embittered
by troubles which I am spared!  I know that the one being in the world
whom I love is sheltered from such sufferings as mine.  But how many
cannot suffer alone; how many must hear the heart-rending cry of nature
repeated on beloved lips that ask for food; how many for whom pale women
and unsmiling children are waiting in bare cold rooms!  Poor creatures!
Blessed be holy charity!

After these thoughts I dared not complain; they gave me courage to bear
my trial to the end. As a matter of fact I could have shortened it.
There are two or three restaurants where I am known, and where, when I
was rich, I had often gone in without hesitation, though I had forgotten
to bring my purse.  I might have made some such pretext.  Nor would it
have been difficult for me to borrow a franc or two in Paris.  But I
recoiled from such expedients.  They suggested poverty too plainly, and
they came too near to trickery.  That descent is swift and slippery for
the poor, and I believe I would rather lose honesty itself than the
delicacy which gives distinction to the commonplace virtue.  I have seen
too often with what facility this exquisite sentiment of honesty loses
its bloom, even in the finest natures, not merely under the breath of
misery, but at the slightest contact with privation.  So I shall keep
strict watch over myself.  I shall be on my guard henceforth against
even the most innocent compromise with conscience.  When bad times come,
do not accustom your soul to suppleness; it is only too prone to yield.

Fatigue and cold drove me back about nine o’clock.  The door of the
_hôtel_ was open. Treading as lightly as a ghost, I had reached the
staircase when the sound of a lively conversation came from the
concierge’s room.  They were talking about me, for at this very moment
the tyrant of the house pronounced my name with unmistakable contempt.

"Be good enough, Mme. Vauberger," said the concierge, "not to trouble me
with your Maxime.  Did I ruin your Maxime?  Then what are you talking to
me about?  If he kills himself, they’ll bury him, won’t they?"

"I tell you, Vauberger," his wife answered, "it would have made your
heart bleed to see him drain his water-bottle.  And if I believed you
meant what you say in that offhand manner—just like an actor—’If he
kills himself, they’ll bury him!’  I would——  But I know you don’t,
because you’re a good sort, although you don’t like being upset.  Fancy
being without fire or bread! And that after being fed on dainties all
your life, and wrapped up in furs like a little pet cat.  It’s a shame
and a disgrace.  A nice sort of government yours is to allow such
things!"

"But it has nothing to do with the government," said M. Vauberger,
reasonably enough. "And I’m sure you’re wrong; it’s not so bad as all
that.  He can’t be wanting bread; it’s impossible."

"All right, Vauberger.  I’ve more to tell you. I’ve followed him.  I’ve
watched him, and made Edouard watch him, too.  Yes, I have.  I’m certain
he had no dinner yesterday, and no breakfast to-day; and as I’ve
searched his pockets and all the drawers, and not found so much as a red
cent, you may be sure he hasn’t had any dinner to-day, for he’s much too
high and mighty to go and beg one."

"Oh, is he?  So much the worse for him. Poor people shouldn’t be proud,"
said the worthy concierge, true to the sentiments of his calling.

I had had enough of this dialogue, and put an end to it abruptly by
opening the door and asking M. Vauberger for a light.  I could not have
astounded him more if I had asked for his head. Though I particularly
wished not to give way before these people, I could not help stumbling
once or twice as I went up the stairs.  My head was swimming.  Usually
my room was as cold as ice.  Imagine my surprise at finding a bright,
cheerful fire, which sent a pleasant warmth through the room.  I wasn’t
stoic enough to put it out, and I blessed the kind hearts there are in
the world.  I stretched myself out in an old arm-chair of Utrecht
velvet, which, like myself, had been brought by reverses from the first
floor to the garret.  I tried to sleep.  For half an hour I had been
dreaming in a kind of torpor of sumptuous banquets and merry junketings,
when the noise of the door opening made me jump up with a start.  I
thought I was dreaming still when Mme. Vauberger came in, carrying a big
tray with two or three savoury dishes steaming on it.  Before I could
shake off my lethargy she had put the tray down and had begun to lay the
cloth.  At last I started up hastily.

"Well," I said, "what does this mean?  What are you doing?"

Mme. Vauberger pretended to be greatly surprised.

"I thought you ordered dinner, sir?"

"Oh, no."

"Edouard told me that——"

"Edouard made a mistake; it’s for one of the other tenants; you had
better see."

"But there’s no other tenant on this floor, sir ... I can’t make out..."

"Well, it was not for me.  What does all this mean?  Oh, you annoy me!
Take it away."

The poor woman began to fold the cloth, looking at me reproachfully,
like a favourite dog who has been beaten.

"I suppose you’ve had dinner already, sir," she said, timidly.

"No doubt."

"That is a pity, because this dinner is quite ready, and now it will be
wasted, and the boy’ll get a scolding from his father.  If you hadn’t
had your dinner already, sir, you would have very much obliged me if——"

I stamped my foot violently.

"Leave the room, I tell you," I said, and as she was going out I went up
to her.  "My good Louison," I said, "I understand, and I thank you; but
I am not very well to-night, and I have no appetite."

"Ah, M. Maxime," she exclaimed, in tears, "you don’t know how you hurt
my feelings. Well, you can pay me for the dinner; you shall if you like;
you can give me the money as soon as you get some ... but if you gave me
a hundred thousand francs, it wouldn’t make me so happy as seeing you
eat my poor dinner.  You would do me a great kindness, M. Maxime.  You,
who are so clever, you ought to understand how I feel.  Oh, I know you
will, M. Maxime!"

"Well, my dear Louison, what am I to do? I can’t give you a hundred
thousand francs ... but ... I am going to eat your dinner.  All by
myself, too, if you don’t mind."

"Certainly, sir.  Oh, thank you, sir; I thank you very much indeed.  You
have a kind heart, sir."

"And a good appetite, Louison.  Give me your hand—oh, not to put money
in, you may be sure.  There!  _Au revoir_, Louison."

The good woman went out sobbing.

I did justice to Louison’s dinner, and had just finished writing these
lines when a grave and heavy footstep sounded on the stairs, and at the
same time I thought I heard the voice of my humble providence whispering
confidences in hurried, nervous tones.  A moment or two later there was
a knock.  Louison slipped away in the darkness, and the solemn outline
of the old notary appeared in the doorway.

M. Laubépin cast a keen glance at the tray where I had left the
fragments of my dinner. Then coming towards me and opening his arms, at
once confused and reproachful, he said:

"In Heaven’s name, marquis, why did you not——"

He broke off, strode quickly about the room, and then coming to a sudden
halt, exclaimed:

"Young man, you had no right to do this; you have given pain to a
friend, and you have made an old man blush."

He was much moved.  I looked at him, a little moved myself and not
knowing what to say, when he suddenly clasped me in his arms and
murmured in my ear, "My poor child...!"

For a moment we said nothing.  When we had sat down, M. Laubépin
continued.

"Maxime," he said, "are you in the same mind as when I left you?  Have
you the courage to accept the humblest work, the least important
occupation, provided it is honourable, and that it gives you a
livelihood and preserves your sister from the sufferings and dangers of
poverty?"

"Most certainly I am; it’s my duty, and I am ready to do it."

"Very well, my friend.  Now listen to me. I have just returned from
Brittany.  In that ancient province there is a family called Laroque,
who have for many years past honoured me with their entire confidence.
This family is now represented by an old man and two ladies whom age or
disposition render incapable of business.  The Laroques have a
substantial income derived from their large estates in land, which have
latterly been managed by an agent whom I took the liberty to regard as a
rogue.  The day following our last interview, Maxime, I received
intelligence of the death of this man.  I immediately set out for the
Château Laroque and asked for the appointment for you.  I laid stress on
your having been called to the bar, and dwelt particularly on your moral
qualities.  Respecting your wishes, I did not allude to your birth; you
are not, and will not, be known in that house under any name but that of
Maxime Odiot.  A pavilion at some distance from the house will be
allotted to you, and you will be able to have your meals there when, for
any reason, you do not care to join the family at table.  Your salary
will be six thousand francs a year.  How will that suit you?"

"It will suit me perfectly.  You must let me acknowledge at once how
much I feel the consideration and delicacy of your friendship.  But to
tell you the truth, I am afraid I am rather a strange kind of business
man—rather a novice, you know."

"You need have no anxiety on that score, my friend.  I anticipated your
scruples, and concealed nothing from the parties concerned.  ’Madame,’ I
said to my excellent friend, Mme. Laroque, ’you require an agent and an
administrator of your income.  I offer you one.  He is far from
possessing the talents of his predecessor; he is by no means versed in
the mysteries of leases and farm-freeholds; he does not know the
alphabet of the affairs you are so good as to intrust to him; he has had
no experience, no practice, and no opportunity of learning; but he has
something which his predecessor lacked, which sixty years of experience
had not given him, and which he would not have acquired in ten thousand
years—and that is honesty, madame.  I have seen him under fire, and I
will answer for him.  Engage him; he will be indebted to you, and so
shall I.’  Young man, Mme. Laroque laughed very much at my way of
recommending people, but in the end it turned out to be a good way, for
it has succeeded."

The worthy old gentleman then offered to impart to me some elementary
general notions on the kind of administration I was about to undertake,
and to these he added, in connection with the interests of the Laroque
family, the results of some inquiries which he had made and put into
shape for me.

"And when am I to go, my dear sir?"

"To say the truth, my boy" (he had entirely dropped the "marquis"), "the
sooner the better, for those good people could not make out a receipt
unaided.  My excellent friend, Mme. Laroque, more especially, though an
admirable woman in many respects, is beyond conception careless,
indiscreet, and childish in business matters.  She is a Creole."

"Ah! she is a Creole," I repeated with some vivacity.

"Yes, young man, an old Creole lady," M. Laubépin said dryly.  "Her
husband was a Breton; but these details will come in good time....
Good-bye till to-morrow, Maxime, and be of good cheer.  Ah!  I had
forgotten.  On Thursday morning, before my departure, I did something
which will be of service to you.  Among your creditors there are some
rogues, whose relations with your father were obviously usurious.  Armed
with the thunders of the law, I reduced their claims on my own
responsibility, and made them give me receipts in full.  So now your
capital amounts to twenty thousand francs.  Add to this reserve what you
are able to save each year from your salary, and in ten years’ time we
shall have a good dowry for Hélène.  Well, well, come and lunch with
Mâitre Laubépin to-morrow, and we will settle all the rest.  Good-bye,
Maxime; good-night, my dear child!"

"God bless you, sir!"


                                  CHÂTEAU DE LAROQUE (D’ARZ), _May 1st_.

I left Paris yesterday.  My last interview with M. Laubépin was painful.
I feel the affection of a son for the old man.  Then I had to bid Hélène
farewell.  It was necessary to tell her something of the truth, to make
her understand why I was compelled to accept an appointment. I talked
vaguely of temporary business difficulties. The poor child understood, I
think, more than I had said; her large, wondering eyes filled with tears
as she fell upon my neck.

At last I got away.  I went by train to Rennes, where I stayed the
night.  This morning I took the diligence, which put me down, four or
five hours ago, at a little Morbilian town not far from the château of
Laroque.  We had travelled ten leagues or more from Rennes, and still I
had seen nothing to justify the reputed picturesqueness of our ancient
Armorica.  A flat, green country without variety; eternal apple-trees in
eternal fields; ditches and wooded slopes shutting off the view on both
sides of the road; here and there a nook full of rural charm, and a few
blouses and glazed hats relieving the very ordinary scene.  All this
strongly inclined me to think that poetic Brittany was merely a
pretentious and somewhat pallid sister of Lower Normandy.  Tired of
disillusions and apple-trees, I had for more than an hour ceased to take
any notice of the country.  I was dozing heavily, when I felt suddenly
that the lumbering vehicle was lurching forward heavily.  At the same
time the pace of the horses slackened, and a clanking noise, together
with a peculiar vibration, proclaimed that the worst of drivers had
applied the worst of brakes to the worst of diligences.  An old lady
clutched my arm with the ready sympathy excited by a sense of common
danger.  I put my head out of the window; we were descending, between
two lofty slopes, an extremely steep hill, evidently the work of an
engineer too much enamoured of the straight line.

Half-sliding, half-rolling, we soon reached the bottom of a narrow
valley of gloomy aspect.  A feeble brook flowed silently and slowly
among thick reeds, and over its crumbling banks hung a few moss-grown
tree-trunks.  The road crossed the stream by a bridge of a single arch,
and, climbing the farther hill, cut a white track across a wide, barren,
and naked _lande_ whose crest stood out sharply against the horizon in
front of us.  Near the bridge and close to the road was a ruined hovel.
Its air of desolation struck to the heart. A young, robust man was
splitting wood by the door; his long, fair hair was fastened at the back
by a black ribbon.  He raised his head, and I was surprised at the
strange character of his features and at the calm gaze of his blue eyes.
He greeted me in an unknown tongue and with a quiet, soft, and timid
accent.  A woman was spinning at the cottage window; the style of her
hair and dress reproduced with theatrical fidelity the images of those
slim chatelaines of stone we see on tombs. These people did not look
like peasants; they had, in the highest degree, that easy, gracious, and
serious air we call distinction.  And they had, too, the sad and dreamy
expression often seen among people whose nationality has been destroyed.

I had got down to walk up the hill.  The _lande_, which was not
separated from the road, extended all round me as far and farther than I
could see; stunted furze clung to the black earth on every side; here
and there were ravines, clefts, deserted quarries, and low rocks, but no
trees.

Only when I had reached the high ground I saw the distant sombre line of
the heath broken by a more distant strip of the horizon.  A little
serrated, blue as the sea and steeped in sunlight, it seemed to open in
the midst of this desolation the sudden vision of some radiant fairy
region.  At last I saw Brittany!

I had to engage a carriage to take me the two leagues that separated me
from the end of my journey.  During the drive, which was not by any
means a rapid one, I vaguely remember seeing woods, glades, lakes, and
oases of fresh verdure in the valleys; but as we approached the Château
Laroque I was besieged by a thousand apprehensions which left no room
for tourist’s reflections. In a few minutes I was to enter a strange
family on the footing of a sort of servant in disguise, and in a
position which would barely secure me the consideration and respect of
the lackeys themselves.  This was something very new to me. The moment
M. Laubépin proposed this post of bailiff, all my instincts, all my
habits, had risen in violent protest against the peculiar character of
dependence attached to such duties.  Nevertheless, I had thought it
impossible to refuse without appearing to slight my old friend’s zealous
efforts on my behalf.  Moreover, in a less dependent position, I could
not have hoped to obtain for many years the advantages which I should
have here from the outset, and which would enable me to work for my
sister’s future without losing time. I had therefore overcome my
repugnance, but it had been very strong, and now revived more strongly
than ever in face of the imminent reality. I had need to study once more
the articles on duty and sacrifice in the moral code that every man
carries in his conscience.  At the same time I told myself that there is
no situation, however humble, where personal dignity cannot maintain
itself—and none, in fact, that it cannot ennoble. Then I sketched out a
plan of conduct towards the Laroque family, and promised myself to show
a conscientious zeal for their interests, and, to themselves, a just
deference equally removed from servility and from stiffness.  But I
could not conceal from myself that the last part of my task, obviously
the most delicate, would be either greatly simplified or complicated by
the special characters and dispositions of the people with whom I was to
come into contact.  Now, M. Laubépin, while recognising that my anxiety
on these personal questions was quite legitimate, had been stubbornly
sparing of information and details on the subject.  However, just as I
was starting, he had handed me a private memorandum counselling me at
the same time to throw it in the fire as soon as I had profited by its
contents.  This memorandum I took from my portfolio and proceeded to
study its sibylline utterances, which I here reproduce exactly.


                      "CHÂTEAU DE LAROQUE (D’ARZ)

            "LIST OF PERSONS LIVING AT THE AFORESAID CHÂTEAU

"1st.  M. Laroque (Louis-Auguste), octogenarian, present head of the
family, main source of its wealth: an old sailor, famous under the first
empire as a sort of authorized pirate; appears to have enriched himself
by lawful enterprises of various kinds on the sea; has lived in the
colonies for a long while.  Born in Brittany, he returned and settled
there about thirty years since, accompanied by the late Pierre-Antoine
Laroque, his only son, husband of

"2d.  Mme. Laroque (Joséphine-Clara), daughter-in-law of the
above-mentioned; by origin a Creole; aged forty years; indolent
disposition; romantic temperament; certain whimsies: a beautiful nature.

"3d.  Mlle. Laroque (Marguerite-Louise), the grand-daughter, daughter,
and presumptive heiress of the preceding, aged twenty years; Creole and
Bretonne; cherishes certain chimeras; a beautiful nature.

"4th.  Mme. Aubry, widow of one Aubry, a stock-broker, who died in
Belgium; a second cousin, lives with the family.

"5th.  Mlle. Hélouin (Caroline-Gabrielle), aged twenty-six; formerly
governess, now companion; cultivated intellect; character doubtful.

"Burn this."


In spite of its reticence, this document was of some service to me.
Relieved from the dread of the unknown, I felt that my apprehensions had
partly subsided.  And if, as M. Laubépin asserted, there were two fine
characters in the Château Laroque, it was a higher proportion than one
could have expected to find among five inhabitants.

After a drive of two hours the coachman stopped at a gate flanked by two
lodges.

I left my heavy luggage there, and went towards the château, carrying a
valise in one hand, while I used the other to cut off the heads of the
marguerites with my cane.  After walking a little distance between rows
of large chestnuts I came to a spacious circular garden, emerging into a
park a little farther on.  Right and left I saw deep vistas opening out
between groves already verdant, water flowing under trees, and little
white boats laid up in rustic boat-houses.

Facing me was the château, an imposing building in the elegant
half-Italian style of the early years of Louis XIII.  At the foot of the
double perron, and under the lofty windows of the façade stretched a
long terrace, which formed a kind of private garden, approached by
several broad, low steps.  The gay and sumptuous aspect of this place
caused me a real disappointment, which was not lessened when, as I drew
nearer to the terrace, I heard the noise of young and laughing voices
rising above the distant tinkle of a piano.  Plainly I had come to an
abode of pleasure very different from the old and gloomy donjon of my
imaginings. However, the time for reflection had passed. I went quickly
up the steps, and suddenly found myself in the midst of a scene, which
in any other circumstances I should have thought extremely pretty.

On one of the lawns of the flower-garden half a dozen young girls,
linked in couples and laughing at themselves, whirled in a flood of
sunshine, while a piano, touched by a skilful hand, sent the rhythms of
a riotous waltz through an open window.

But I had scarcely had time to note the animated faces of the dancers,
their loosened hair, and large hats flapping on their shoulders.  My
sudden appearance had been received with a cry of general alarm,
succeeded by profound silence. The dancing ceased, and all the band
awaited the advance of the stranger in array of battle.  But the
stranger had come to a halt with signs of evident embarrassment.  Though
for some time past I had scarcely troubled my head about my social
claims, I must confess that at this moment I should gladly have got rid
of my hand-bag.  But I had to make the best of the situation.  As I
advanced, hat in hand, towards the double staircase leading to the
vestibule of the château the piano ceased abruptly.  A large
Newfoundland first presented himself at the window, putting his
lion-like head on the cross-bar between his two hairy paws; immediately
after there appeared a tall young girl, whose somewhat sunburnt face and
serious expression were framed in a mass of black and lustrous hair.
Her eyes, which I thought extraordinarily large, examined the scene
outside with nonchalant curiosity.

"Well, what is the matter?" she asked in a quiet tone.

I made her a low bow, and once more cursing the bag which evidently
amused the young ladies, I crossed the perron hastily, and entered the
house.

In the hall a gray-haired servant, dressed in black, took my name.  A
few minutes later I was shown into a large drawing-room hung with yellow
silk.  There I at once recognised the young lady I had just seen at the
window.  She was beyond question remarkably beautiful.  By the
fire-place, where a regular furnace was blazing, a lady of middle age
and of marked Creole type of feature, sat buried in a large arm-chair
among a mass of eider-down pillows and cushions of all sizes.  Within
her reach stood an antique tripod surmounted by a _brasero_, to which
she frequently held her pale and delicate hands.  Near Mme. Laroque sat
a lady knitting, whom I recognised at once by her morose and
disagreeable expression as the second cousin, the widow of the
stock-broker who died in Belgium.  Mme. Laroque looked at me as if she
were more than surprised, as if she were astounded.  She asked my name
again.

"I beg your pardon ... Monsieur...?"

"Odiot, madame."

"Maxime Odiot—the manager, the steward—that M. Laubépin...?"

"Yes, madame."

"You are quite sure?"

I could not help smiling.

"Yes, madame, quite sure."

She glanced quickly at the widow of the stock-broker, and then at the
grave young girl, as if to say, "Is it possible?"  Then she moved
slightly among her cushions, and continued:

"Pray sit down, M. Odiot," she said.  "I must thank you very much for
placing your talents at our service.  We need your help badly, I assure
you, for—it cannot be denied—we have the misfortune to be very wealthy."

Seeing the second cousin raise her shoulders at this, Mme. Laroque went
on: "Yes, my dear Mme. Aubry, I do say so, and I hold to it.  God sent
me riches to try me.  Most certainly I was born for poverty and
privation, for devotion and sacrifice; but I have always been crossed.
For instance, I should have loved to have had an invalid husband.  M.
Laroque was an exceptionally healthy man.  That is how my destiny has
been and will be marred from beginning to end——"

"Oh, don’t talk like that!" said Mme. Aubry dryly.  "Poverty would agree
with you—a person who can’t deny herself a single indulgence or
refinement!"

"One moment, my dear madame," returned Mme. Laroque, "I do not believe
in useless sacrifices.  If I subjected myself to the worst privations,
who would be the better for it?  Would you be any happier if I shivered
with cold from morning till night?"

By an expressive gesture Mme. Aubry signified that she would not be any
happier, but that she considered Mme. Laroque’s language extremely
affected and ridiculous.

"After all," continued Mme. Laroque, "good fortune or ill fortune, what
does it matter?  As I said, M. Odiot, we are very rich, and little as I
may value our wealth, it is my duty to preserve it for my daughter,
though the poor child cares no more for it than I.  Do you, Marguerite?"

A slight smile broke the curve of Mlle. Marguerite’s disdainful lips at
this question, and the low arch of her eyebrows contracted momentarily;
then the grave, haughty face subsided into repose again.

"M. Odiot," resumed Mme. Laroque, "you shall be shown the place, which,
at M. Laubépin’s explicit request, has been reserved for you; but before
this I should like you to be introduced to my father-in-law, who will be
very much pleased to see you.  My dear cousin, will you ring? M. Odiot,
I hope that you will give us the pleasure of your company at dinner
to-day.  Good-bye—for the present."

I was intrusted to the care of a servant, who asked me to wait in a room
next to the one I had just left, until he had ascertained M. Laroque’s
wishes.  He had not closed the door of the _salon_, so it was impossible
for me not to hear these words spoken by Mme. Laroque with the
good-natured irony habitual to her:

"There!  Can you understand Laubépin?  He talked of a man of a certain
age; very simple, very steady, and he sends me a gentleman like that!"

Mlle. Marguerite said something, but so quietly that I could not hear
it, much to my regret, I confess.  Her mother replied immediately:

"That may be so, my dear, but it is none the less absolutely ridiculous
of Laubépin.  Do you expect that a man of that kind will go running
about ploughed fields in _sabots_?  I will wager that man has never worn
_sabots_; he doesn’t know what they are.  Well, it may be a prejudice of
mine, dear, but _sabots_ seem to me essential to a good bailiff.
Marguerite, it has just occurred to me, you might take him to your
grandfather."

Mlle. Marguerite entered the room where I was almost directly.  She
seemed vexed to find me there.

"Pardon me, mademoiselle," I said, "but the servant asked me to wait
here."

"Will you be so good as to follow me, sir?"

I followed her.  She made me climb a staircase, cross many corridors,
and at last brought me to a kind of gallery, where she left me.  I
amused myself by examining the pictures.  They were, for the most part,
very ordinary sea pieces painted to glorify the old privateersmen of the
Empire.  There were several rather murky sea-fights, in which it was
very evident that the little brig Amiable, Captain Laroque, twenty-six
guns, gave John Bull a great deal of trouble.  Then came several
full-length portraits of Captain Laroque, which naturally attracted my
particular attention.  With certain slight variations they all
represented a man of gigantic height, wearing a sort of republican
uniform with large facings, as luxuriant of locks as Kléber, and looking
straight before him with an energetic, glowing, and sombre expression.
Altogether not exactly a pleasant sort of man.  While I studied this
mighty figure, which perfectly realized the general idea of a
privateersman and even of a pirate, Mlle. Marguerite asked me to come
into the room.  I found myself face to face with a shrivelled and
decrepit old man, whose eyes showed scarcely a spark of life, and who,
as he welcomed me, touched with trembling hand the cap of black silk
which covered a skull that shone like ivory.

"Grandfather," said Mlle. Marguerite, raising her voice, "this is M.
Odiot."

The poor old privateersman raised himself a little, as he looked at me
with a dull and wavering expression.

I sat down at a sign from Mlle. Marguerite, who repeated:

"M. Odiot, the new bailiff, grandfather."

"Ah—good-day, sir," murmured the old man.

An interval of most painful silence followed. Captain Laroque, his body
bent in two and his head hanging down, fixed a bewildered look on me.
At last, having apparently found a highly interesting subject of
conversation, he said in a dull, deep voice:

"M. de Beauchêne is dead!"

I was not provided with a reply to this unexpected communication.  I had
not the slightest idea who M. de Beauchêne might be; Mlle. Marguerite
did not take the trouble to tell me; so I limited the expression of my
regret at this unhappy event to a slight exclamation of condolence.  But
the old captain apparently thought this was not adequate, for the next
moment he repeated, in the same mournful voice:

"M. de Beauchêne is dead!"

This persistence increased my embarrassment. I saw Mlle. Marguerite
impatiently tapping her foot on the floor.  Despair seized me, and,
catching at the first phrase that came into my head, I said:

"Yes; and what did he die of?"

I had scarcely asked the question, when an angry look from Mlle.
Marguerite told me that I was suspected of irreverent mockery.  Though I
was not conscious of anything worse than a foolish _gaucherie_, I did
all I could to give the conversation a more pleasant character.  I spoke
of the pictures in the gallery, of the great emotions they must recall,
of the respectful interest I felt in contemplating the hero of these
glorious scenes.  I even went into detail, and instanced with no certain
warmth of feeling two or three battles in which I thought the brig
Aimable had actually accomplished miracles.  While I thus expressed the
courteous interest of good breeding, Mlle. Marguerite still, to my
surprise, regarded me with manifest dissatisfaction and annoyance.

Her grandfather, however, listened attentively, and I saw that his head
was rising little by little. A strange smile lighted up his haggard face
and swept away his wrinkles.  All at once he rose, and, seizing the arms
of his chair, drew himself up to his full height; the glare of battle
flashed from the hollow sockets of his eyes, and he shouted in a
sonorous voice that made me start:

"Helm to windward!  Hard to windward! Larboard fire!  Lay to; lay to!
Grapple, smart now, we have them!  Fire, there above!  Sweep them well,
sweep the bridge!  Now follow me—together—down with the English, down
with the cursed Saxon!  Hurrah!"

With this last cry, which rattled hoarsely in his throat, he sank
exhausted into his chair; in vain his grand-daughter sought to aid him.
Mlle. Laroque, with a quick imperious gesture, urged me to depart, and I
left the room immediately. I found my way as best I could through the
labyrinth of corridors and staircases, congratulating myself very much
on the talent for _apropos_ which I had displayed in my interview with
the old captain of the Aimable.

Alain, the gray-haired servant who had received me when I arrived, was
waiting for me in the hall to tell me from Mme. Laroque that I should
not have time to go to my quarters before dinner, and that it would not
be necessary for me to change my dress.  As I entered the _salon_, a
company of about twenty people were leaving it in order of precedence on
their way to the dining-room.  This was the first time I had taken part
in any social function since the change in my condition. Accustomed to
the small distinctions which the etiquette of the drawing-room grants to
birth and fortune, I felt keenly the first symptoms of that indifference
and contempt to which my new situation must necessarily expose me.
Repressing as well as I could this ebullition of false pride, I gave my
arm to a young lady, well made and pretty, though rather small.  She had
kept in the background as the guests passed out, and, as I had guessed,
she proved to be the governess, Mlle. Hélouin.  The place at table
marked as mine was next to hers.  While we were taking our seats, Mlle.
Marguerite appeared guiding like Antigone the slow and dragging steps of
her grandfather. With the air of tranquil majesty peculiar to her, she
came and sat down on my right, and the big Newfoundland, who seemed to
be the official guardian of this princess, took up his place as sentinel
behind her chair.  I thought it my duty to express at once my regret at
having so maladroitly aroused memories which seemed to have such an
unfortunate effect on her grandfather.

"It is for me to apologize," she answered.  "I should have warned you
never to speak of the English in my grandfather’s presence....  Do you
know Brittany well?"

I said that I had not seen it till to-day, but that I was perfectly
delighted to know it, and to show, moreover, that I was worthy so to do,
I enlarged in lyric style on the picturesque beauties that had struck me
during the journey.  Just as I was hoping that this clever flattery
would secure me the good graces of the young Bretonne, I was surprised
to see her show symptoms of impatience and boredom.  Decidedly I was not
fortunate with this young lady.

"Good!  I see," she said with a singular expression of irony, "that you
love all that is beautiful, all that appeals to the soul and the
imagination—nature, bloom, heather, rocks, and the fine arts.  You will
get on wonderfully well with Mlle. Hélouin, who adores all those things.
For my part I care nothing about them."

"Then in Heaven’s name, mademoiselle, what are the things you love?"

I asked the question in a playful tone. Mlle. Marguerite turned sharply
on me, flashed a haughty look at me, and replied curtly:

"I love my dog.  Here, Mervyn!"

She thrust her hand fondly into the Newfoundland’s thick coat.  Standing
on his hind legs, he had already stretched his huge head between my
plate and Mlle. Marguerite’s.

I began to observe this young lady with more interest, and to search for
the outward signs of the unimpressionable soul on which she appeared to
pride herself.

I had at first supposed that Mlle. Laroque was very tall, but this
impression was due to the noble and harmonious character of her beauty.
She is really of medium height.  The rounded oval of her face and her
haughty and well-poised neck are lightly tinged with sombre gold.  Her
hair, which lies in strong relief upon her forehead, ripples at every
movement of her head with bluish reflections. The fine and delicate
nostrils seem to have been copied from the divine model of a Roman
Madonna, and cut in living pearl.  Under the large, deep, and pensive
eyes, the golden sun-burn of the cheeks deepens into an aureole of
deeper brown, which looks like the shadow of the eyelashes, or may be a
circle seared by the burning glances of her eyes.

It is hard to describe the sovereign sweetness of the smile which
animates this lovely face at intervals, and tempers the splendour of the
great eyes. Of a surety, the goddess of poetry, of reverie, and of fairy
realms might boldly claim the homage of mortals under the form of this
child, who loves nothing but her dog.  In her rarest creations nature
often reserves her most cruel deceptions for us.

After all, it matters little to me.  I see plainly that I am to play in
the imagination of Mlle. Marguerite a part something like that of a
negro, which, as we know, is not an object particularly attractive to
Creoles.  For my part, I flatter myself that I am quite as proud as
Mlle. Marguerite. The most impossible kind of love for me is one which
might lay me open to the charge of scheming or self-seeking.  But I
fancy that I shall not require much moral courage to meet so remote a
danger, for Mlle. Marguerite’s beauty is of the kind which attracts the
contemplation of the artist, rather than any warmer and more human
sentiment.

However, at the name of Mervyn, which Mlle. Marguerite had given to her
body-guard, Mlle. Hélouin, my left-hand neighbour, plunged boldly into
the Arthurian cycle, and was so good as to inform me that Mervyn was the
correct name of the celebrated enchanter, whom the vulgar call Merlin.
From the Knights of the Round Table she worked back to the days of Cæsar
and all the hierarchy of druids, bards, and ovates defiled in tedious
procession before me.  After them we fell, as a matter of course, from
_dolmen_ to _menhir_ and from _galgal_ to _cromlech_.

While I wandered in Celtic forests with Mlle. Hélouin, who wanted only a
little more flesh to make quite a respectable druidess, the widow of the
stock-broker made the echoes resound with complaints as ceaseless and
monotonous as those of a blind beggar: They had forgotten to give her a
foot-warmer!  They gave her cold soup! They gave her bones without meat!
That was how she was treated!  Still, she was used to it. Ah, it is sad
to be poor, very sad!  She wished she were dead.

"Yes, doctor"—she was speaking to her neighbour, who listened to her
wailings with slightly ironical interest—"yes, doctor, I am not joking;
I do wish I were dead.  I am sure it would be a great relief to
everybody.  Think what it must be—to have been in the position I’ve been
in, to have eaten off silver plate with one’s own coat of arms, and now
to be reduced to charity, to be the sport of servants!  No one knows
what I suffer in this house; no one ever will know.  The proud suffer
without complaining, so I say nothing, doctor, but I think all the
more."

"Of course, dear lady," said the doctor, whose name was Desmarets.
"Don’t say any more. Take a good drink.  That will calm you."

"Nothing but death will calm me, doctor."

"Very well, madame, I am ready when you are," said the doctor
resolutely.

Towards the centre of the table the attention of the company was
monopolized by the careless, caustic, and animated braggadocio of a M.
de Bévallan, who seemed to be allowed the latitude of a very intimate
friend.  He is a very tall man, no longer young, of a type closely akin
to that of Francis I.

They listened to him as if he were an oracle, and Mlle. Laroque herself
showed as much interest and admiration as she seemed capable of feeling
for anything in this world.  But, as most of his popular witticisms
referred to local anecdotes and parish gossip, I could not adequately
appreciate the merits of this Armorican lion.

I had reason, however, to appreciate his courtesy; after dinner he
offered me a cigar, and showed me the way to the smoking-room, where he
did the honours to three or four extremely young men, who evidently
thought him a model of good manners and refined wickedness.

"Well, Bévallan," said one of these young fellows, "you’ve not given up
hopes of the priestess of the sun-god?"

"Never!" replied M. de Bévallan.  "I would wait ten months—ten years, if
necessary—but I will marry her or no one shall!"

"You’re a lucky chap!  The governess will help you to be patient."

"Must I cut out your tongue, or cut off your ears, young Arthur?" said
M. de Bévallan, going towards him and indicating my presence with a
hasty gesture.

A delightful conversational pell-mell then followed, which introduced me
to all the horses, all the dogs, and all the ladies of the
neighbourhood. It would not be a bad thing for ladies if, for once in
their lives, they could hear the kind of conversation which goes on
between men in the effusive mood that follows a copious repast.  It
would show them exactly the delicacy of our manners, and the amount of
confidence they are calculated to inspire.  I am not in the least
prudish, but in my opinion this conversation outran the limits of the
freest jesting; it touched on everything, gaily outraged everything,
took on a gratuitous tone of universal profanation.  My education is,
perhaps, incomplete, for it has left me with a certain reserve of
reverence, that I think should be maintained even in the wildest
extravagances of high spirits.

But we have in the France of to-day our young America, which is not
happy unless it can blaspheme a little after drinking; we have the
future hopes of the nation, those amiable little ruffians, without
father or mother, without God or country, who seem to be the raw
products of some heartless and soulless machine, which has accidentally
deposited them on this planet not at all to its beautification.

In short, M. de Bévallan, who had appointed himself professor of
cynicism to these beardless _roués_, did not please me, nor do I think
that I pleased him.  I retired very early on the ground of fatigue.

At my request old Alain procured a lantern and guided me across the park
to my future quarters.  After a few minutes’ walk, we crossed a wooden
bridge over a stream and found ourselves in front of a massive arched
doorway, flanked by two small towers.  It was the entrance to the
ancient château.  A ring of aged oak and pine shut in this feudal
fragment, and gave it an air of profound seclusion.  It is in this ruin
that I am to live.  My apartments run above the door from one of the
towers to the other, and consist of three rooms very neatly hung with
chintz.  I am not displeased with this gloomy abode; it suits my
fortunes.  As soon as I had got rid of Alain I began to write the
account of this eventful day, breaking off occasionally to listen to the
gentle murmur of the stream under my window, and to the call of the
legendary owl celebrating his doleful loves in the neighbouring woods.


                                                             _July 1st_.

I must now try to pick up the thread of my personal and private life,
which for the past two months has been somewhat lost among the daily
duties of my post.

The day after my arrival I stayed at home for some hours, studying the
ledgers and papers of my predecessor, _le père Hivart_, as they call him
here.  I lunched at the château, where only a few of last night’s guests
remained.  Mme. Laroque had lived a great deal in Paris before her
father-in-law’s health condemned her to perpetual rusticity. In her
retirement she had kept her taste for the culture, elegance, or
frivolity which had centred in the Rue du Bac when Mme. de Staël and her
turban held sway.  She had also visited most of the large cities of
Europe, and had brought away from them an interest in literature far
exceeding the ordinary Parisian curiosity and erudition.  She read a
great many newspapers and reviews, and endeavoured to follow, as far as
it was possible at such a distance, the movement of that refined
civilization of which museums and new books are the more or less
ephemeral fruit and flowers.  We were talking at lunch about a new
opera, and Mme. Laroque asked M. de Bévallan a question about it which
he could not answer, although he professes to be well informed of all
that takes place on the Boulevard des Italiens. Mme. Laroque then turned
to me with an air that showed how little she expected her man of
business to be acquainted with such matters; but it happened,
unfortunately, that these were the only "affairs" with which I was
familiar.  I had heard in Italy this very opera which had just been
played in France for the first time.  The very reserve of my answers
excited Mme. Laroque’s curiosity; she questioned me closely, and before
long put me in possession of all the enthusiasms, souvenirs, and
impressions she had got in her travels.  Soon we were discussing the
most celebrated theatres and galleries of the Continent like old
friends, and when we left the table our conversation was so animated
that, to avoid breaking the thread of it, Mme. Laroque almost
unconsciously took my arm. We continued our exchange of sympathies in
the drawing-room, Mme. Laroque gradually dropping the kindly,
patronizing tone which had rather grated on me hitherto.

She confessed that she was possessed by a mania for the theatre, and
that she thought of having some theatricals at the château.  She asked
my advice on the management of this amusement, and I gave her some
details of particular plays that I had seen in Paris and St. Petersburg.
Then, as I had no intention of abusing her good-nature, I rose quickly,
saying that I meant to inaugurate my work at once by examining a large
farm about two leagues from the château.  This announcement seemed to
fill Mme. Laroque with consternation; she looked at me, fidgeted among
her cushions, held her hands to the brazier, and at last said in a low
voice:

"Oh, what does it matter?  You can put it off."

And as I insisted, she replied with comical embarrassment:

"But you cannot; the roads are horrible.... You must wait for the fine
weather."

"No, madame," I said, smiling, "I will not wait a minute; if I am to be
your bailiff I must look after your affairs."

"Madame," said old Alain, who had come in, "M. Odiot could have _le père
Hivart’s_ old gig; it is not on springs, but it’s all the more solid for
that."

Mme. Laroque darted a withering glance at the miserable Alain for daring
to suggest _le père Hivart’s_ gig to an agent who had been to the Grand
Duchess Hélène’s theatricals.

"Wouldn’t the buggy be able to do it, Alain?" she asked.

"The buggy, madame?  Oh, no!  I don’t believe it could get into the
lane, and if it did, it would certainly not come out whole."

I declared that I could walk easily.

"No, no," declared Mme. Laroque; "that’s impossible.  I couldn’t allow
it.  Let me see ... We have half a dozen horses here doing nothing; but
perhaps you don’t ride?"

"Oh, I ride, but—you really need not—I am going to——"

"Alain, get a horse saddled for M. Odiot.... Which do you suggest,
Marguerite?"

"Give him Proserpine," whispered M. de Bévallan maliciously.

"Oh, no! not Proserpine," declared Marguerite.

"And why not Proserpine?" I asked.

"Because she’d throw you," said the girl frankly.

"Oh, would she?  Really?  May I ask, mademoiselle, if you ride her?"

"Yes, I do, but she gives me some trouble."

"Oh, well, perhaps she’ll give you less when I’ve ridden her once or
twice!  That decides me. Have Proserpine saddled, Alain."

Mlle. Marguerite’s dark eyebrows contracted as she sat down with a
gesture that disclaimed all responsibility for the catastrophe she
foresaw.

"If you want spurs," said M. de Bévallan, who evidently did not mean me
to return alive, "I have a pair at your service."

Without appearing to notice Mlle. Marguerite’s reproachful look at the
obliging gentleman, I accepted his offer.  Five minutes later a frantic
scuffling announced the approach of Proserpine, who was brought with
some difficulty to one of the flights of steps under the private garden.
She was a fine half-bred, as black as jet. I at once went down the
perron.  Some kind people, with M. de Bévallan at their head, followed
me to the terrace—from motives of humanity, no doubt—and at the same
time the three windows of the _salon_ were opened for the use of the
women and old men.  I would willingly have dispensed with all this
publicity, but it could not be helped, and besides, I had very little
anxiety about the result of this adventure.  I might be a very young
land agent, but I was an old horseman. I could scarcely walk when my
father put me upon a horse—to my mother’s great alarm—and afterward he
took the greatest pains to render me his equal in an art in which he
excelled.  Indeed, he had carried my training to the verge of
extravagance, sometimes making me put on the heavy ancestral armour to
perform my feats of equitation.

Proserpine allowed me to disentangle the reins, and even to touch her
neck without giving the slightest sign of irritation; but as soon as she
felt my foot in the stirrup she shied at once, and sent a volley of
kicks above the marble vases on the staircase; then sat comfortably down
on her hindquarters and beat the air with her forefeet.  After this she
rested, quivering all over.  "A bit fidgety to mount," said the groom,
with a wink.

"So I see, my good fellow, but I shall astonish her.  See," and at the
same time I sprang into the saddle without touching the stirrup and got
my seat before Proserpine had quite realized what had happened.  The
instant after we shot at a hard gallop into the chestnut avenue,
followed by some clapping of hands, which M. de Bévallan had the grace
to start.

That evening I could see, from the way people treated me, that this
incident, trifling as it was, had raised me in the public opinion.  Some
other talents of the same sort, which I owed to my education, helped me
to secure the only kind of consideration I wished for—one which
respected my personal dignity.  Besides, I made it quite evident that I
should not abuse the kindness and consideration shown me, by usurping a
position incompatible with my humble duties at the château. I shut
myself up in my tower as much as I could without being boorish; in a
word, I kept strictly in my place, so that none should be tempted to
remind me of it.

A few days after my arrival, during one of the large dinners which at
that season were of nearly daily occurrence, I heard the _sous-préfet_
of the neighbouring little town, who was sitting next to the lady of the
house, ask her who I was. Mme. Laroque, who is rather forgetful, did not
remember that I was quite close, and, _nolens volens_, I heard every
word of her reply.

"Please, don’t ask me," she said.  "There’s some extraordinary mystery
about him.  We think he must be a prince in disguise....  There are so
many who like to see the world in this fashion. This one has every
conceivable talent: he rides, plays the piano, draws, and does each to
perfection! ... Between ourselves, my dear _sous-préfet_, I believe he
is a very bad steward, but there’s no doubt he is a very agreeable man."

The _sous-préfet_—who also is a very agreeable man, or thinks he is,
which is just as satisfactory to himself—stroked his fine whiskers with
his plump hand and said sweetly that there were enough beautiful eyes in
the château to explain many mysteries; that he quite understood the
steward’s object, and that Love was the legitimate father of Folly, and
the proper steward of the Graces....  Then, changing his tone abruptly,
he added:

"However, madame, if you have the slightest anxiety about this person, I
will have him interrogated to-morrow by the head constable."

Mme. Laroque protested against this excess of gallantry.  The
conversation so far as it concerned me went no further.  But I was very
much annoyed, not with the _sous-préfet_, who had greatly amused me; but
with Mme. Laroque, who seemed to have been more than just to my personal
qualities, and not sufficiently convinced of my official abilities.

As it happened, I had to renew the lease of one of the larger farms on
the day following.  The business had to be transacted with a very astute
old peasant, but, nevertheless, I held my own with him, thanks to a
judicious combination of legal phraseology and diplomatic reserve.  When
we had agreed on the details, the farmer quietly placed three _rouleaux_
of gold on my desk. Though I did not understand this payment, as there
was nothing due, I refrained from showing any surprise.  By some
indirect questions, which I asked as I unfolded the packets, I
ascertained that this sum was the earnest-money of the bargain; or, in
other words, a sort of bonus which the farmers present to the landlord
when their leases are renewed.

[Illustration: "You do not ask me where I am taking you," she said (see
page 123)]

I had not thought of claiming this, as I had not found it mentioned in
the leases drawn up by my able predecessor, which had been my models.
For the moment I drew no conclusions from his silence on this point, but
when I handed over the windfall to Mme. Laroque her surprise astonished
me.

"And what is this?" she said.

I explained the nature of the payment, and had to repeat my explanation.

"And is it a usual custom?" she continued.

"Yes, madame, whenever a lease is renewed."

"But, to my knowledge, there have been ten leases renewed in the last
thirty years....  How is it we never heard of such a custom?"

"I cannot say, madame."

Mme. Laroque fell into an abyss of reflections, in which, perhaps, she
encountered the venerable shade of le père Hivart.  At length she
slightly shrugged her shoulders, looked at me, then at the gold, then
again at me, and seemed to hesitate.  At last, leaning back in her
chair, sighing deeply, and speaking with a simplicity which I greatly
appreciated, she said:

"Very well, monsieur.  Thank you."

Mme. Laroque had the good taste not to compliment me on this instance of
ordinary honesty; but, none the less, she conceived a great idea of her
steward’s ability and virtues.  A few days later I had a proof of this.
Her daughter was reading an account of a voyage to the pole to her, in
which an extraordinary bird is mentioned—-"_qui ne vole pas_."[#]

[#] "Which does not _fly_."  But the French verb _voler_ is also to
steal; hence the application.


"Like my steward," she said.

I sincerely believe that from this time my devotion to the work I had
undertaken gave me a claim to a more positive commendation.  Soon
afterward, when I went to see my sister in Paris, M. Laubépin thanked me
warmly for having so creditably redeemed the pledges he had given on my
behalf.

"Courage, Maxime," he said.  "We shall give Hélène her dowry.  The poor
child will not have noticed anything unusual, and you, my friend, will
have nothing to regret.  Believe me, you possess what in this world
comes nearest to happiness, and I am sure you will always possess it,
thank Heaven!  It is a peaceful conscience and the manly serenity of a
soul devoted to duty."

The old man is right, of course.  I am at peace, but I cannot say that I
am happy.  My soul is not yet ripe for the austere delights of
sacrifice; it has its outbursts of youthfulness and of despair.  My life
is no longer my own: it is devoted and consecrated to a weaker, dearer
life; it has no future: it is imprisoned in a cloister that will never
be opened.  My heart must not beat, my brain must not think, save for
another.  So be it!  May Hélène be happy!  Years are stealing upon me.
May they come quickly!  I pray that they will; the coldness that comes
with them will strengthen my courage.

Besides, I cannot complain of a situation which has, in fact, fallen
agreeably short of my worst forebodings, and has even surpassed my
brightest expectations.  My work, my frequent journeys into the
neighbouring departments, and my love of solitude, often keep me away
from the château, where I particularly avoid all the more festive
gatherings.  And perhaps it is because I go to them so seldom that I am
welcomed so kindly.  Mme. Laroque, in particular, shows a real affection
for me; she makes me the confidant of her curious and perfectly sincere
fancies about poverty, sacrifice, and poetic abnegation, which form such
an amusing contrast to the chilly Creole’s multitudinous contrivances
for comfort.

Sometimes she envies the gipsies carrying their children on a wretched
cart along the roads, and cooking their food under hedges; sometimes it
is the Sisters of Chanty; sometimes the _cantinières_, whose heroic work
she longs to share.

And she never ceases to lament the late M. Laroque’s admirable health,
which prevented his wife from showing that nature had meant her for a
sick-nurse.  Nevertheless, she has lately had fixed to her chair a kind
of niche like a sentry-box, as a protection from draughts.  The other
morning I found her triumphantly installed in this kiosk, where she
really awaits her martyrdom in considerable comfort.

I have scarcely less reason to be satisfied with the other inhabitants
of the château. Mlle. Marguerite, who is always plunged like a Nubian
sphinx in some mysterious vision, nevertheless condescends to treat me
to my favourite airs with the utmost good-nature.  She has a fine
contralto voice, which she uses with perfect art, but at the same time
with an indifference and coldness which I think must be deliberate.
Sometimes, in an unguarded moment, I have heard her tones become
impassioned, but almost immediately she has returned to an icy
correctness, as if ashamed of the lapse from her character or from her
role.

A few games of piquet with M. Laroque, which I had the tact to lose, won
me the favour of the poor old man.  Sometimes I find his dim and feeble
gaze fixed on me with strange intentness, as if some dream of the past,
some fanciful resemblance, had half revived among the mists of an
exhausted memory, in which the images of a century hover confusedly.

They actually wanted to return me the money I lost to him.  Mme. Aubry,
who usually plays with the old captain, accepts these restitutions
without scruple; but this does not prevent her from winning pretty
frequently, on which occasions she has furious encounters with the old
corsair.  M. Laubépin was lenient when he described this lady merely as
embittered.  I have no liking for her, but, out of consideration for the
others, I have made an effort to gain her good-will, and have succeeded
in doing so by listening patiently first to her lamentations over her
present position, and then to her impressive description of her former
grandeur, her silver, her furniture, her lace, and her gloves.

It must be confessed that I have come to the right school to learn to
despise the advantages I have lost.  Every one here by their attitude
and language eloquently exhorts me to the contempt of riches.  Firstly,
Mme. Aubry, who might be aptly compared to those shameless gluttons
whose greediness takes away one’s appetite, and who disgust one with the
dishes they praise; the old man, perishing as sadly among his millions
as Job on his dunghill; the good woman, romantic and _blasé_, who in the
midst of her inopportune prosperity dreams of the forbidden fruit of
suffering; and lastly, the haughty Marguerite, who wears like a crown of
thorns the diadem of beauty and opulence which Heaven has forced on her
brow.  A strange girl!

Nearly every fine morning I see her ride past the windows of my belfry;
she bows gravely to me, the black plume of her felt riding hat dipping
and waving in the wind; and then she slowly disappears along the shaded
path that runs through the ruins of the ancient château. Sometimes old
Alain follows her, and sometimes her only companion is the huge and
faithful Mervyn, who strides at the side of his beautiful mistress like
a pensive bear.  So attended, she covers all the country round on her
errands of charity. She does not need a protector, for there is not a
cottage within six leagues where she is not known and worshipped as the
goddess of good works. The poor people call her "Mademoiselle," as if
they were speaking of one of those daughters of kings who give poetry to
their legends, and whose beauty and power and mystery they recognise in
her.

I, meanwhile, am seeking the key to the sombre preoccupation that clouds
her brow, the haughty and defiant severity of her eyes, the cold
bitterness of her tongue.  I ask myself if these are the natural traits
of a strange and complex character, or the symptoms of some secret
suffering, remorse, or fear, or love, which preys on this noble heart.
However slightly one may be interested in the question, it is impossible
not to feel a certain curiosity about a person so remarkable. Last
night, while old Alain, with whom I am a favourite, was serving my
solitary repast, I said:

"Well, Alain, it’s been a lovely day.  Have you been riding?"

"Yes, sir, this morning, with mademoiselle."

"Oh, indeed!"

"You must have seen us go by, sir."

"Very likely.  I sometimes do see you pass. You look well on horseback,
Alain."

"You’re very kind, sir.  But mademoiselle looks better than I do."

"She is a very beautiful young lady."

"You’re right, sir, and she’s fair inside as well as outside.  Just like
her mother.  I’ll tell you something, sir.  You know, perhaps, that this
property belonged to the last Comte de Castennec, whom I had the honour
of serving.  When the Laroques bought the château I must own that I was
rather upset, and not inclined to stay with the new people.  I had been
brought up to respect the nobility, and it went against my feelings to
live with people of no birth.  You may have noticed, sir, that I am glad
to wait upon you; that is because I think you look like a gentleman. Are
you quite sure you don’t belong to the nobility, sir?"

"Quite sure, my poor Alain."

"Well, it’s of no consequence, sir, and this is what I wanted to tell
you," said Alain, with a graceful inclination.  "In the service of these
ladies I have learned that nobility of the heart is as good as the
other, more especially that of the Comte de Castennec, who had a
weakness for beating his servants.  Still, sir, it’s a great pity
mademoiselle cannot marry a gentleman with a fine old name.  Then she
would be perfect."

"But, Alain, it seems to me that it only depends on herself."

"If you refer to M. de Bévallan, sir, it certainly does, for he asked
for her more than six months ago.  Madame was not opposed to the
marriage, and, in fact, after the Laroques, M. de Bévallan is the
richest man hereabouts; but mademoiselle, though she didn’t positively
refuse, wanted time to think the matter over."

"But if she loves M. de Bévallan, and can marry him whenever she likes,
why is she always so sad and thoughtful?"

"It’s very true, sir, that mademoiselle has changed a good deal in the
last two or three years. Before that she was as merry as a bird; now she
seems to have something on her mind, but, if I may say so, it is not
love for this gentleman."

"You don’t seem very fond of M. de Bévallan yourself, Alain.  But his
family is excellent."

"That does not prevent him from being a bad lot, sir, always running
after the country girls, and for no good either.  And if you used your
eyes, sir, you might see that he is quite ready to play the sultan here
in the château itself while he’s waiting for something better."

After a significant pause Alain went on.

"Pity you haven’t a hundred thousand francs a year, sir."

"And why, Alain?"

"Because..." and Alain shook his head thoughtfully.


                                                            _July 25th_.

During the past month I have made one friend and two enemies.  The
enemies are Mlle. Marguerite and Mlle. Hélouin.  The friend is a maiden
lady of eighty-eight.  Scarcely a compensation!  I will first make up my
account with Mlle. Hélouin, an ungrateful young lady.  What she
considers my offences should rather have secured her esteem.  But she is
one of the many women who do not care either to give, or to inspire,
such a commonplace sentiment.  From the first I had been inclined to
establish friendly relations with her.  The governess and the steward
were on a similar footing; we had a common ground in our subordinate
position at the château. I have always tried to show to ladies in her
position the consideration which seems to me due to those in
circumstances so precarious, humiliating, and hopeless.  Besides, Mlle.
Hélouin is pretty, intelligent, and accomplished, though she rather
deducts from these qualities by the exaggerated liveliness of manner,
the feverish coquetry, and the tinge of pedantry which are the failings
of her profession.

I do not claim any credit for my chivalrous attitude towards her.  It
seemed to me a sort of duty when, as various hints had warned me, I
became aware that a devouring lion in the semblance of King Francis I
was prowling round my young _protégée_.  This duplicity, which did
credit to M. de Bévallan’s audacity, was carried on, under cover of a
friendly interest, with an astuteness and confidence well calculated to
deceive the careless and unsuspecting.  Mme. Laroque and her daughter,
especially, are too little acquainted with the wickedness of this world,
and too little in touch with realities to have the slightest suspicion.
For my own part, I was angry with this insatiable lady-killer, and did
my best to spoil his plans.  More than once I secured the attention he
desired to monopolize; and I tried more especially to counteract or
diminish the bitter sense of neglect and isolation, which makes women in
Mlle. Hélouin’s position ready to accept the kind of consolation which
was being offered to her.  Have I ever throughout this ill-advised
contest outstepped the delicate limits of brotherly protection?  I think
not.  The very words of the brief dialogue which has suddenly altered
the character of our relations bear witness to my discretion.  One
evening last week we were taking the air on the terrace.  During the day
I had had occasion to show some kindly attention to Mlle. Hélouin, and
she now took my arm and said, as she bit at an orange-blossom with her
small white teeth:

"M. Maxime, you are very good to me."

Her voice was a little unsteady.

"I hope so, mademoiselle."

"You are a true friend."

"Yes, indeed."

"But what kind of a friend?"

"A true friend, as you say."

"A friend who—loves me?"

"Surely."

"Much?"

"Most decidedly."

"Passionately?"

"No."

At this word, which I uttered very clearly and with a steady look, Mlle.
Hélouin flung the orange-blossom away and dropped my arm.  Since this
unlucky hour I have been treated with a contempt I do not deserve, and I
should have been convinced that friendship between man and woman is a
mere illusion, if I had not had on the following day something like an
antithesis to this adventure.

I had gone to spend the evening at the château, and as the two or three
families who had been staying there for the last fortnight had left in
the morning, I met only the _habitués_—the curé, the tax-collector, Dr.
Desmarets, and General de Saint-Cast and his wife, who, like the doctor,
lived at the neighbouring little town.

When I came in, Mme. de Saint-Cast, who had apparently brought her
husband a handsome fortune, was in close conversation with Mme. Aubry.
As usual, these ladies were in perfect agreement.  In language in which
distinction of form rivalled elevation of thought, they, like two
shepherds in an eclogue, alternately lauded the incomparable charms of
wealth.

"You are perfectly right, madame," said Mme. Aubry.  "There is only one
thing in the world worth having, and that is money.  When I had money I
utterly despised every one who had not, and now I think it quite natural
for people to despise me, and I don’t complain if they do."

"No one despises you on that account, madame," replied Mme. de
Saint-Cast, "most certainly not; but all the same there’s a very great
difference between poverty and riches, I must confess, as the general
knows well enough.  Why, he had absolutely nothing when I married
him—except his sword—and one doesn’t get fat on a sword, does one,
madame?"

"No, no, indeed, madame!" exclaimed Mme. Aubry, delighted with this bold
metaphor. "Honour and glory are all very well in novels, but a nice
carriage is much better in practice, isn’t it, madame?"

"Of course it is, madame; and that’s just what I was saying to the
general this morning as we came here.  Isn’t it, general?"

"Eh, what?" growled the general, who was playing cards in a corner with
the old corsair.

"You hadn’t a penny when I married you, general, had you?" continued
Mme. de Saint-Cast. "You won’t think of denying that, I suppose."

"We’ve heard it often enough, I should say," growled the general.

"That doesn’t alter the fact that if it hadn’t been for me, general,
you’d have had to travel on foot, and that wouldn’t have been a fine
thing for you with your wounds.  Your half-pay of six or seven hundred
francs wouldn’t have kept a carriage for you, my friend.  I was saying
this to him to-day _apropos_ of our new carriage, which is as easy as an
arm-chair.  Of course I paid a good price for it; it’s four thousand
francs out of my pocket, madame."

"I can well believe it, madame.  My best carriage cost me fully five
thousand, including the tiger-skin mat, which was worth five hundred
francs alone."

"Yes," replied Mme. de Saint-Cast; "but I have had to be a little
careful, for I’ve just been getting new drawing-room furniture; the
carpet and curtains alone cost me fifteen thousand francs. You’ll say
it’s too good for a country hole like this.  You’re right.  But the
whole town is lost in admiration, and, after all, one does like to be
respected, madame!"

"Of course, madame," replied Mme. Aubry, "we like to be respected, and
we are respected according to the money we have.  For my part, I console
myself for not being respected now, by remembering that if I were as
well off as I once was, I should see all the people who despise me at my
feet again."

"Except me, by God!" cried Dr. Desmarets, jumping up.  "You might have a
hundred millions a year, and I give you my word of honour you wouldn’t
see me at your feet!  And now I’ll go and get some air, for, devil take
me, if one can breathe here!"

So saying, the honest doctor left the room, and my heart went out to him
for the outburst that had relieved my own sense of disgust and
indignation.

Although M. Desmarets was received at the house as a Chrysostom to whom
great license of speech was allowed, his language had been so forcible
that it had produced a certain embarrassment in the company, and an
awkward silence ensued. Mme. Laroque broke it adroitly by asking her
daughter whether it was eight o’clock.

"It can’t be, mother," replied Mlle. Marguerite, "for Mlle. de Porhoët
has not come yet."

The minute after, as the clock struck, the door opened, and Mlle.
Jocelynde de Porhoët-Gaël entered the room, with astronomical
punctuality, on the arm of Dr. Desmarets.

Mlle. de Porhoët-Gaël, who had this year seen her eighty-eighth spring,
and whose appearance suggested a tall reed wrapped in silk, is the last
scion of a noble race, whose earliest ancestors must be sought among the
legendary kings of ancient Armorica.  Of this house, however, there is
no authentic record in history until the twelfth century, when Juthail,
son of Conan le Tort, who belonged to the younger branch of the reigning
family of Brittany, is mentioned.  Some drops of the Porhoët blood have
mingled with that of the most illustrious veins of France—those of the
Rohans, the Lusignans, the Penthièvres, and these _grands seigneurs_ had
admitted that it was not the least pure of their blood.  I remember that
when in a fit of youthful vanity I studied the alliances of my family, I
noticed the strange name of Porhoët, and that my father, who was very
learned in such matters, spoke highly in its praise.  Mlle. de Porhoët,
who is now the sole bearer of the name, had always refused to marry,
because she wished to preserve as long as possible in the firmament of
the French nobility the constellation of those magic syllables,
Porhoët-Gaël.  It happened one day that the origin of the house of
Bourbon was referred to in her presence.

"The Bourbons," said Mlle. de Porhoët, sticking her knitting-needle into
her blond peruke, "the Bourbons are a good family, but" (with an air of
modesty) "there are better."

However, it is impossible not to render homage to this august old lady,
who bears with surprising dignity the heavy and triple majesty of birth,
age, and misfortune.  A wretched lawsuit in some foreign country which
she has persisted in carrying on for fifteen years, has gradually
reduced a fortune, which was but small to begin with; and now she has
scarcely a thousand francs a year. Privation has not broken her pride or
embittered her temper.  She is gay, good-humoured, and courteous.  She
lives, no one quite knows how, in her small house with her little
servant, and contrives even to find money for charity.  To their great
honour, Mme. Laroque and her daughter are devoted to their poor and
noble neighbour. At their house she is treated with a respectful
attention which amazes Mme. Aubry.  I have often seen Mlle. Marguerite
leave the gayest dance to make a fourth for Mlle. de Porhoët’s rubber,
for the world would come to an end if Mlle. de Porhoët’s whist
(halfpenny points) was omitted for a single day.  I am one of the old
lady’s favourite partners, and on this particular evening soon found
myself, with the curé and the doctor, seated at the whist-table with the
descendant of Conan le Tort.

I ought to mention here that at the commencement of the last century a
grand-uncle of Mlle. de Porhoët, who held an office in the establishment
of the Duke d’Anjou, crossed the Pyrenees in the suite of the young
prince, who became Philip V, settled in Spain, and prospered there.  His
posterity became extinct about fifteen years ago, and Mlle. de Porhoët,
who had never lost sight of her Spanish relatives, at once declared
herself heiress to their considerable property.  Her claims were
contested, only too justly, I fear, by one of the oldest Castilian
families allied to the Spanish branch of the Porhoëts.

Hence the lawsuit which the unfortunate octogenarian maintained at great
expense, going from court to court with a persistence akin to mania,
which her friends deplored and other people ridiculed.  Dr. Desmarets,
despite his respect for Mlle. de Porhoët, belongs to the party who
laughs; more particularly, because he strongly disapproves of the use to
which the poor lady has prospectively devoted her fictitious heritage.
She intends to build in the neighbouring town a cathedral in the richest
_flamboyant_ style, which shall perpetuate the name of the foundress and
of a great departed race to all future generations. This cathedral—dream
begotten of a dream!—is the harmless hobby of the old lady.  She has had
the plans made; she spends her days and sometimes her nights brooding on
its splendours, altering its arrangements, or adding to its decoration.
She speaks of it as already existent: "I was in the nave of my
cathedral; to-night I noticed something very ugly in the north aisle of
my cathedral; I have altered the uniform of the _suisse_;" etc., etc.

"Well, mademoiselle," said the doctor, shuffling the cards, "have you
been working at the cathedral since yesterday?"

"Yes, of course I have, doctor; and I’ve had a rather happy idea.  I
have replaced the solid wall, which you know separates the choir from
the sacristy, by a screen of carved foliage in imitation of the Clisson
chapel in the church at Josselin.  It is much lighter."

"No doubt; but in the meanwhile what is the news from Spain?  Can it be
true, as I think I saw in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ this morning, that
the young duke of Villa-Hermosa proposes to put an end to the case in a
friendly way, by offering to marry you?"

Mademoiselle de Porhoët disdainfully shook the plume of faded ribbons
attached to her cap.

"I should refuse absolutely," she said.

"Ah, yes, you say so, mademoiselle!  But how about the guitar that’s
been heard under your windows the last few nights?"

"Bah!"

"Bah?  And that Spaniard who has been prowling about the country in a
mantle and yellow boots, sighing as if his heart would burst?"

"You are a feather-head, Dr. Desmarets," said Mademoiselle de Porhoët,
calmly opening her snuff-box.  "Still, as you wish to know—I may say
that my man of business wrote to me from Madrid a day or two ago that
with a little more patience we should see the end of all our troubles."

"I can quite believe that!  Do you know where your man of business comes
from, madame? Straight from Gil Blas’ cavern.  He’ll drain you of your
last shilling, and then he’ll laugh in your face.  How much better it
would be to give up this folly for good and all, and live at ease
quietly! What good will these millions do you?  Aren’t you happy and
respected ... what more do you want? ... As for your cathedral, I won’t
speak of it, because—it is a bad joke."

"My cathedral is not a bad joke to any but bad jokers, Dr. Desmarets;
besides, I am defending my rights, I am fighting for justice; the
property belongs to me.  I have heard my father say so a hundred times,
and never, with my consent, shall it go to people who are actually as
much strangers to our family as yourself, my friend, or," she added,
indicating me, "this gentleman."

I was childish enough to resent this remark, and at once replied: "As
far as I am concerned, mademoiselle, you are mistaken; for my family has
had the honour of being allied to yours, and _vice versa_."

At this startling announcement Mlle. de Porhoët hastily brought her
cards, which she held spread out fanwise, nearer to her pointed chin,
and straightening her spare figure, looked me in the face as if she
doubted my sanity.  By a tremendous effort she recovered her
self-possession, and said, as she carried a pinch of Spanish snuff to
her thin nose, "Young man, you will have to prove what you say to me."

Ashamed of my foolish boast, and embarrassed by the attention it had
aroused, I bowed awkwardly without speaking.  Our rubber was played in
gloomy silence.  It was ten o’clock, and I was preparing to slip off,
when Mlle. de Porhoët touched my arm.

"Sir," she said, "will you be so kind as to accompany me to the end of
the avenue?"

I bowed again and followed her into the park. The little servant in
Breton costume went first, carrying a lantern; then came Mlle. de
Porhoët, stiff and silent, carefully holding up her worn silk frock; she
had coldly declined the offer of my arm, and I walked humbly at her
side, feeling very much dissatisfied with myself.  After a few minutes
of this funeral march the old lady spoke.

"Well, sir?" she said.  "You may speak; I am waiting.  You have asserted
that your family is allied to mine, and as an alliance of this kind is a
piece of history entirely new to me, I shall be greatly obliged if you
will enlighten me on the subject."

I had decided that I must at all costs keep the secret of my incognito.

"I venture to hope, mademoiselle, that you won’t take a mere joke quite
seriously."

"A joke!" exclaimed Mlle. de Porhoët.  "A nice subject to joke upon!
And, sir, what do you people of to-day call the jokes that can be boldly
addressed to an old and defenceless woman, but which you would not dare
to utter in the presence of a man?"

"Mademoiselle, you leave me no choice; I must trust to your discretion.
I do not know whether the name of Champcey d’Hauterive is familiar to
you?"

"I know the Champcey d’Hauterives perfectly well, sir.  They are a good,
an excellent Dauphin family.  What inference am I to make from your
question?"

"I am the present representative of that family."

"You!" exclaimed Mlle. de Porhoët, coming to a sudden halt.  "You are a
Champcey d’Hauterive?"

"Yes, the male representative, mademoiselle."

"That alters the question," she said.  "Give me your arm, cousin, and
tell me your history."

I thought that in the circumstances it would be better not to conceal
anything from her.  As I finished the painful story of my family
troubles, we found ourselves opposite a small house, remarkably low and
narrow.  On one side stood a kind of low pigeon-house with a pointed
roof.

"Enter, marquis," said the daughter of the kings of Gaël at the
threshold of her lowly palace. "I beg that you will enter."

The next moment I stepped into a little _salon_ meanly paved with brick;
on the faded tapestry of the walls hung portraits of ancestors gorgeous
in ducal ermine.  Over the mantel-piece sparkled a magnificent clock in
tortoise-shell and brass, surmounted by a group representing the chariot
of the sun.  Some oval-backed arm-chairs and an old spindle-legged couch
completed the furniture of the room.  Everything shone with cleanliness,
and the air was filled with mingled odours of iris, Spanish snuff, and
aromatic essences.

"Pray be seated," said the old lady, taking her place on the couch;
"pray be seated, my cousin. I call you cousin, though we are not
related, and cannot be, as Jeanne de Porhoët and Hugues de Champcey were
so ill-advised as to leave no issue. But, with your permission, I should
like to treat you as a cousin when we are alone, if only to make me
forget for a moment that I am alone in the world.

"So, cousin, I see how you are situated; the case is a hard one, most
assuredly.  But I will suggest one or two reflections which have solaced
me, and which I think are likely to bring consolation to you.

"In the first place, my dear marquis, I often tell myself that among all
the charlatans and ex-lackeys one now sees rolling in carriages, poverty
has a peculiar perfume of distinction and good taste.  And also I am
inclined to believe that God has brought some of us down to a poor and
narrow life, that this coarse, materialistic, money-grubbing age may
have before it the type of a merit, dignity, and splendour which owes
nothing to money, that money cannot buy—that is not for sale.  In all
probability, my cousin, such is the providential justification of your
situation and of mine."

I conveyed to Mlle. de Porhoët my satisfaction at having been chosen
with her to give the world the noble example it needs so much, and shows
itself so ready to profit by.

"For my own part," she went on, "I am inured to privation, and I do not
feel it much. When, in the course of a life that has been too long, one
has seen a father and four brothers, worthy of their father, perish
before their time, by sword or bullet; when one has lost, one by one,
all the objects of one’s affection and worship, one must have a very
paltry soul to be much concerned about more or less ample meals and more
or less dainty clothing.  Certainly, marquis, you may be sure that if my
personal comfort only were at stake, I should not trouble about my
Spanish millions; but to me it seems but right and proper and exemplary
that a house like mine should not disappear without leaving some
permanent sign, some striking monument of its grandeur and its faith.
And that is why, cousin, I have, in imitation of some of my ancestors,
thought of the pious foundation of which you must have heard, and which,
while I have life, I shall not relinquish."

Assured of my sympathy, the noble old lady seemed to lose herself in
meditation, and as she looked sadly at the fading portraits of her
ancestors, only the beat of the hereditary clock broke the silence of
midnight in the dim room.

"There will be," Mlle. de Porhoët suddenly resumed, in a solemn voice,
"there will be a chapter of regular canons attached to the church. Each
day at matins, a mass will be said in the private chapel of my family,
for the repose of my soul and the souls of my ancestors.  The feet of
the celebrant priest will tread a slab of unlettered marble, which will
form the step of the altar and cover my ashes."

I bent towards her with evident emotion, with visible respect.  Mlle. de
Porhoët took my hand and pressed it gently.

"Cousin," she said, "I am not mad, whatever they may say.  My father,
who was truth itself, always declared that when the direct line of our
Spanish branch became exhausted we should be sole heirs to the estate.
Unfortunately, his sudden and violent death prevented him from giving us
more exact information; but, as I cannot doubt his word, I do not doubt
my rights.  However," she added, after a little pause, and in accents of
touching sadness, "if I am not mad, I am old, and the people in Spain
know it.  For fifteen years they have dragged me on from one delay to
another; they are waiting for my death to finish everything.  And ...
they will not have to wait long.  Some morning, very soon now, I must
make my last sacrifice.  My dear cathedral—my only love, which has taken
the place of so many broken or suppressed attachments—will have but one
stone—that of my tomb."

She was silent; her thin hands wiped away two tears that flowed down her
worn face, as, striving to smile, she said:

"Forgive me, cousin, you have enough troubles of your own.  Besides, it
is late—you must go. You will compromise me!"

Before leaving, I again recommended the greatest discretion in reference
to the secret I had intrusted to her.  She replied, a little naïvely,
that I need not be anxious, and that my peace of mind and dignity were
safe in her hands. Nevertheless, during the next few days, I suspected,
from Mme. Laroque’s increased attentions, that my excellent friend had
handed on my confidence. Indeed, Mlle. de Porhoët admitted the fact,
declaring that the honour of her family demanded this, and assured me
that Mme. Laroque was incapable of betraying a secret intrusted to her,
even to her own daughter.

Our interview had filled me with sympathetic respect for the old lady,
which I tried to express by my actions.  The evening of the next day I
taxed all the resources of my pencil in the invention of decorations,
internal and external, for her beloved cathedral.  The attention seemed
to please her very much, and I soon got into the habit of working on the
cathedral every evening after our whist, enriching the ideal edifice
with a statue, a pulpit, and a rood-loft.  Mlle. Marguerite, who seems
to feel a kind of adoration for her old neighbour, associated herself
with my work of charity by devoting a special album to the Basilica
Porhoët, which it is my duty to fill with designs and drawings.

And in addition, I offered my old confidant to take my share in the
inquiries and other matters of business connected with her lawsuit.  The
poor lady confessed that I should do her a service; that though she
could still keep up her ordinary correspondence, her sight was too weak
to decipher the manuscripts of her archives. Hitherto she had not
associated any one with her in this important work, for fear of giving
more occasion to the rustic humourists.  In short, she accepted me as
counsellor and collaborator. Since this, I have conscientiously studied
the voluminous documents of her lawsuit, and I have been convinced that
the case, which must be sooner or later definitively settled, is
absolutely hopeless from the beginning.  M. Laubépin agrees with me in
this opinion, which as far as possible I have concealed from the old
lady. Meanwhile I have pleased her by going through her family archives
piece by piece; she still hopes to find among them some incontestable
proof in favour of her claim.  Unfortunately, the records are very
copious, and fill the pigeon-house from floor to roof.  Yesterday I went
early to Mlle. de Porhoët’s to finish before lunch the examination of
packet No. 115, which I had begun overnight.  The lady of the house had
not risen yet, so, with the help of the little servant, I quietly
installed myself in the _salon_ and settled down to my dusty work.
About an hour later, as I was going joyfully through the last sheet of
packet No. 115, Mlle. de Porhoët came in, dragging a huge bundle neatly
wrapped up in a white linen cover.

"Good-morning, my dear cousin," she said. "I’ve heard how you have been
working for me this morning, so I determined to work for you. Here is
packet No. 116."

I must confess that at this moment Mlle. de Porhoët reminded me of the
cruel fairy of folklore, who shuts the princess up in a lonely tower and
imposes a succession of extraordinary and impossible tasks on her.

"Last night," she continued, "I dreamed that the key of my Spanish
treasure lay in this packet. So you will very much oblige me by
examining it at once.  Afterward I hope you will do me the honour to
share a frugal repast in the shade of my arbour."

There was no help for it.  I obeyed, and I need not say that the
wonderful packet No. 116 contained, like its predecessors, nothing more
valuable than the dust of centuries.  Precisely at noon, the old lady
came to offer me her arm and conduct me formally to a little
box-bordered garden which, with a bit of adjoining meadow, now
constitutes the sole domain of the Porhoëts. The table was set out under
an arched bower of foliage, and through the leaves the sunshine of a
fine summer’s day dappled the spotless, sweet-smelling table-cloth.  I
had done justice to the chicken, the fresh salad, and the bottle of old
Bordeaux, which made up the _menu_ of the banquet, when Mlle. de
Porhoët, who seemed charmed with my appetite, turned the conversation on
to the Laroque family.

"I will own," she said to me, "that I do not care for the old buccaneer.
When he first came here he had a large and favourite ape, which he
dressed up like a servant, and which he seemed to be able to communicate
with perfectly.  The animal was a nuisance to the whole country, and
only a man without education or decency could have kept it.  I agreed
when they told me that it was an ape, but, as a fact, I have always
believed that it was a negro, more especially as I had always suspected
its master of having trafficked in that commodity in Africa.  But M.
Laroque, the son, was a good sort of man, and quite a gentleman.  As to
the ladies—I refer, of course, to Mme. Laroque and her daughter, and in
no way to the widow Aubry, an extremely common person—as to the ladies,
I say, they deserve every good thing one can say of them."

Just then we heard the hoofs of a horse on the path that runs outside
the garden wall, and the next moment some one was knocking sharply at a
small door near the arbour.

"Yes," said Mlle. de Porhoët.  "Who goes there?"

I looked up, and saw a black plume above the top of the wall.

"Open," said a gay voice outside, full of musical intonations.  "Open.
’Tis the fortune of France!"

"What?  Is it you, my darling?" said the old lady.  "Quick, cousin,
run!"

As I opened the door Mervyn rushed between my legs, nearly throwing me
down.  Mlle. Marguerite was tying up her horse to the fence by his
reins.

"_Bonjour_, M. Odiot," she said, without showing any surprise at finding
me there.  Throwing the long folds of her habit over her arm, she
entered the garden.

"Welcome this lovely day, my lovely girl!" said Mlle. de Porhoët.  "Kiss
me, dear.  You’ve been riding too fast, you foolish child.  I can tell
by your colour and the fire that literally seems to flash from your
eyes.  What can I offer you, my beauty?"

"Let me see," said Mlle. Marguerite, glancing at the table.  "What have
you got?  Has M. Odiot eaten up everything?  Not that it matters. I am
thirsty, not hungry."

"I utterly forbid you to drink while you’re so hot.  But wait a moment;
there are some strawberries left in that bed."

"Strawberries!  _O giòia_!" sang the girl. "Take one of those
fig-leaves, M. Odiot, and come with me.  Quick!"

While I chose the largest of the fig-leaves, Mlle. de Porhoët
half-closed one eye, and followed her favourite with the other, as she
walked proudly along the sunlit alley.

"Look at her, cousin," she whispered, with an approving smile; "isn’t
she worthy to be one of us?"

Meanwhile, Mlle. Marguerite, bending over the bed and catching her foot
in her train at every step, greeted each strawberry she found with a
little cry of delight.  I kept near to her, holding out the fig-leaf, in
which she put one strawberry for every two she ate, to help her to be
patient. When she was satisfied with the harvest we returned in triumph
to the arbour.  The rest of the strawberries were sprinkled with sugar,
and crushed by the prettiest teeth in Brittany with great relish.

"Oh, that’s done me good!" exclaimed Mlle. Marguerite, throwing her hat
on the seat and leaning back against the side of the bower.  "And now,
dearest lady, to complete my happiness, you’re going to tell me stories
of the old days when you were a fair warrior."

Mlle. de Porhoët, smiling and charmed, needed no pressing, and began to
tell us some of the most striking events of her famous expeditions with
Lescure and La Rochefoucauld.  And on this occasion my old friend gave
me another proof of her nobility of nature, for she paid her tribute to
the heroes of those troublous wars without distinction of party.  She
spoke of General Hoche, whose prisoner she had been, with almost tender
admiration.  Mlle. Marguerite listened with an impassioned attention
which surprised me.  At one moment, half-buried in her leafy niche, her
long eyelashes a little lowered, she sat as motionless as a statue; at
another, when the story became more exciting, she put her elbows on the
table, plunged a beautiful hand into the masses of her loosened hair,
and fixed the lightning of her brilliant eyes eagerly on the old
_Vendienne_.

Among the sweetest hours of my dull life, I shall always count those I
spent watching that noble face, irradiated by the reflections of the
glowing sky and the impressions of a valiant heart.

When the story-telling was over, Mlle. Marguerite embraced her old
friend, and waking up Mervyn, who was asleep at her feet, declared that
she must return to the château.  As I was sure it would cause her no
embarrassment, I had no hesitation in leaving at the same time.  Apart
from my personal insignificance in the sight of the rich heiress, Mlle.
Laroque was quite at her ease without a chaperon.  Her mother had given
her the same kind of liberal education she had herself received in one
of the British colonies.  And we know that the English method accords to
women before marriage all that independence which we so wisely give them
only when the abuse of it becomes irreparable.  So we went out of the
garden together.  I held her stirrup while she mounted, and we set off
towards the château.

"Really, M. Odiot," she said, after a few steps, "I am afraid I spoiled
your _tête-à-tête_ in the garden.  You seemed to be very happy."

"Certainly, mademoiselle, but as I had already been there a long time, I
forgive you; nay, more, I thank you."

"You are very good to our poor friend.  My mother is very grateful to
you."

"And your mother’s daughter?" I said, laughing.

"Oh, I’m not so easily impressed.  I am afraid you will have to wait a
little before you get any praises from me.  I don’t judge people’s
actions leniently; there is generally more than one explanation of them.
I grant that your behaviour towards Mlle. de Porhoët looks very well,
but——" she paused, shook her head, and went on in a serious, bitter, and
frankly insulting tone, "but I am not at all certain that you are not
paying court to her in the hope that she may make you her heir."

I felt myself grow pale.  But, seeing how absurd it would be to answer
this young girl angrily, I controlled myself, and replied grandly,
"Allow me, mademoiselle, to express my sincere pity for you."

She appeared very much surprised.  "Your sincere pity?"

"Yes, mademoiselle, the respectful pity to which I think you have a
right."

"Pity!" she said, stopping her horse and slowly turning her disdainful,
half-closed eyes towards me.  "I am not so fortunate as to understand
you."

"It is really quite simple, mademoiselle; if disillusion, doubt, and
callousness are the bitterest fruits of long experience, nothing in the
world deserves pity so much as a heart withered by mistrust before it
has even seen life."

"Sir," said Mlle. Laroque, with a strange vehemence, "you do not know
what you are talking about.  And," she added more harshly, "you forget
to whom you are speaking!"

"That is true, mademoiselle," I answered gently, bowing.  "I may have
spoken without much knowledge, and perhaps I forgot, to some extent, to
whom I was speaking.  But you set me the example."

Her eyes fixed on the top of the trees that bordered the road, Mlle.
Marguerite asked, with haughty irony:

"Must I beg your pardon?"

"Most certainly, mademoiselle," I replied firmly, "if either of us
should ask pardon, it is you.  You are rich, I am poor; you can humble
yourself....  I cannot."

There was silence.  Her tightened lips, her quivering nostrils, and the
sudden whiteness of her forehead, showed what a struggle was going on
within her.  Suddenly lowering her whip as if to salute, she said:

"Very well, I beg your pardon."

At the same moment she gave her horse a sharp cut and set off at a
gallop, leaving me in the middle of the road.

I have not seen her since.


                                                            _July 30th_.

The calculation of probabilities is never more misleading than when it
has to do with the thoughts and feelings of a woman.  After the painful
scene between Mlle. Marguerite and myself, I had not been very anxious
to encounter her. For two days I had not been to the château and I
scarcely expected that the resentment I had aroused in this proud
nature, would have subsided in this short interval.  However, about
seven o’clock on the morning of the day before yesterday, when I was
working at the open window of my tower, I heard my name called out in a
most friendly way by the very person of whom I thought I had made an
enemy.

"M. Odiot, are you there?"

I went to the window and saw Mlle. Marguerite standing in the boat that
was kept by the bridge.  She was holding back the brim of her brown
straw hat and looking up at my dark tower.

"Here I am, mademoiselle," I said eagerly.

"Are you coming out?"

After my well-founded apprehension of the last two days, so much
condescension made me think, to use the accepted formula, I was the dupe
of a disordered fancy.

"I beg your pardon....  What did you say?"

"Will you come out for a little with Alain, Mervyn, and me?"

"With pleasure, mademoiselle."

"Very well—bring your album."

I went down quickly and hurried to the bank.

"Ah! ah!" said the girl, laughing, "you’re in a good-humour this
morning, it seems."

I awkwardly murmured something to the effect that I was always in a
good-humour, but Mlle. Marguerite scarcely seemed convinced of the fact.
Then I stepped into the boat and sat down at her side.

"Row away, Alain," she said immediately; and old Alain, who prides
himself on being a first-rate oarsman, set to work steadily, the long
oars moving to and fro at his sides, making him look like a heavy bird
trying to fly.

"I was obliged to come and save you from your donjon," said Mlle.
Marguerite, "where you have been ailing for two whole days."

"Mademoiselle, I assure you that only consideration for you—respect—fear
of..."

"Respect!  Fear!  Oh, dear, no!  You were sulking, that is all.  We
behave much better than you.  My mother, for some reason or other,
thinks you ought to be treated with special consideration, and has
implored me to sacrifice myself on the altar of your pride; so, like an
obedient daughter, I sacrifice myself."

I expressed my gratitude frankly and warmly.

"Not to do things by halves," she continued, "I have determined to give
you a treat to your taste.  So here you have a lovely summer morning,
woods and glades with all the proper light effects, birds warbling in
the foliage, a mysterious bark gliding on the waves.  As this is the
sort of thing you like, you ought to be satisfied."

"Mademoiselle, I am charmed."

"Well, that’s all right."

For the moment I was fairly contented with my fate.  The air was sweet
with the scent of the new-mown hay lying in swaths on either bank; the
sombre avenues of the park, dotted with patches of sunshine, slipped
past us, and from the flower-cups came the happy drone of myriads of
insects feasting on the dew.  Opposite me, old Alain smiled complacently
at me with a protecting look at each stroke of his oars, and closer to
me Mlle. Marguerite, dressed in white—contrary to her custom—beautiful
and fresh and pure as a periwinkle blossom, shook with one hand the
pearls of dew from her veil while she held out the other as a bait for
Mervyn, who was swimming after the boat.  I should not have wanted much
persuasion to go to the end of the world in that little white boat.

As we passed under an arch in the wall that bounds the park the young
Creole said to me:

"You do not ask where I am taking you?"

"No, mademoiselle, I do not.  It is all the same to me."

"I am taking you into fairyland."

"I thought so, mademoiselle."

"Mlle. Hélouin, more versed in poetic lore than I am, has no doubt told
you that the thickets that cover the country for twenty miles round are
the remains of the ancient forest of Brouliande, the hunting-ground of
those beings of Gaël, ancestors of your friend Mlle. de Porhoët, and the
place where Mervyn’s ancestor, wizard though he was, came under the
magic spells of a damsel called Vivien.  Now we shall soon be in the
centre of that forest.  And if this is not enough to fire your
imagination, let me tell you that these woods are full of remains of the
mysterious religion of the Celts; they are paved with them.  In every
shady nook you picture to yourself a white-robed Druid, and in every ray
of sunlight the glitter of a golden sickle.  The religion of these old
bores has left near here, in a solitary and romantic place, a monument
before which people subject to ecstasy are usually in raptures.  I
thought you would like to sketch it, and as it is not easy to find, I
will show you the way, on condition that you suppress the explosions of
an enthusiasm I cannot share."

"Agreed, mademoiselle, I will control myself."

"Yes, please do."

"I promise.  And what is the name of this monument?"

"I call it a heap of big stones, but the antiquaries have more than one
name for it.  Some call it simply a _dolmen_, others, more pedantic, say
it’s a _cromlech_, and the country people—I do not know why—call it the
_migourdit_."[#]


[#] In the wood of Cadoudal (Morbihan).


Meanwhile we glided gently with the current of the stream between two
strips of wet meadow. Here and there, small black cattle with large
pointed horns turned and looked fiercely at us. The valley through which
the widening river crept, was shut in on both sides by a chain of hills,
some covered with dry heather and furze, and some with green brushwood.
Sometimes, at the end of a transversal cleft between two hills, we could
see the crest of a mountain, blue and round in the distance.  In spite
of her indifference, Mlle. Marguerite was careful to draw my attention
to all the beauties of this austere and peaceful country, and careful
also, to qualify each remark with some ironic comment.

For a little while a dull, continuous sound had told us that we were
approaching a waterfall. Suddenly the valley narrowed into a wild and
lonely gorge.  On the left stood a high wall of rock overgrown with
moss; oaks and firs mixed with ivy and straggling brushwood rose one
above the other in every crevice till they reached the top of the cliff,
throwing a mysterious shade on to the deeper water at the foot of the
rocks.  A hundred paces in front of us, the water boiled and foamed, and
then disappeared all at once, and the broken line of the stream stood
out in a veil of white spray, against a distant background of vague
foliage.  On our right, the bank opposite to the cliff had only a narrow
margin of sloping meadow, fringed with the sombre velvet of the wooded
hills.

"Land, Alain," said the young Creole.  Alain moored the boat to a
willow.

"Now, sir," she said, stepping lightly on to grass, "aren’t you
overcome?  Aren’t you troubled, petrified, thunderstruck?  You ought to
be, for this is supposed to be a very pretty place.  I like it because
it is always fresh and cool.  But follow me through the woods—if you are
not too much afraid—and I will show you the famous stones."

Bright, alert, and gay as I had never seen her before, Mlle. Marguerite
crossed the fields with a bounding step, and took a path which led along
the hills to the forest.  Alain and I followed in Indian file.  After a
few minutes’ quick walking our guide stopped and seemed to hesitate, and
looked about her for a moment.  Then, deliberately separating two
interlaced branches, she left the beaten track and plunged into the
undergrowth.  It was very difficult to make way through the thicket of
strong young oaks whose slanting stems and twisted branches were knotted
together as closely as Robinson Crusoe’s palisade. At least Alain and I,
bent double, advanced very slowly, catching our heads against something
at every step, and at each of our clumsy movements bringing down a
shower of dew upon us.  But Mlle. Marguerite, with the greater dexterity
and the catlike suppleness of her sex, slipped without any apparent
effort through the meshes of the labyrinth, laughing at our sufferings,
and carelessly letting the branches spring back after her into our
faces.  At last we reached a narrow glade on the top of the hill.
There, not without emotion, I saw the dark and monstrous table of stone
supported by five or six huge blocks half sunk in the earth, forming a
cavern full of sacred horror.  At first sight this perfect monument of a
time almost fabulous, and of a primitive religion, has an aspect of
eternal verity and of a real mysterious presence, that takes hold of the
imagination, and fills the mind with awe.

The sunshine streaming through the leaves stole through the interstices
in the roughly joined blocks, played about the sinister slab, and lent
an idyllic charm to this barbarous altar.  Even Mlle. Marguerite seemed
pensive and brooding. For my part I entered the cavern, and, after
examining the _dolmen_ thoroughly, set to work to sketch it.  For ten
minutes I had been absorbed in this work, forgetting everything that was
going on about me, when Mlle. Marguerite suddenly spoke:

"Do you want a Velleda to enliven your picture?"

I looked up.  She had wound a wreath of oak-leaves round her forehead
and stood at the head of the _dolmen_, leaning lightly against a sheaf
of saplings.  In the half-light, under the branches, her white dress
looked like marble, and her eyes shone with strange fire in the shadow
of the oaken crown.  She was beautiful, and I think she knew it.  I
looked at her and found it hard to speak.

"If I am in the way, I’ll move," she said.

"Oh, no! please don’t."

"Well, make haste; put Mervyn in too. He’ll be the Druid and I the
Druidess."

I was so lucky—thanks to the vagueness of a sketch—as to reproduce this
poetic vision pretty faithfully.  Evidently interested, she came and
looked at the drawing.

"It isn’t bad," she said, laughing, as she threw her crown away.  "You
must admit that I am very good to you."

I did.  I might even have added, if she had asked me, that she was not
without a spice of coquetry.  But without that she would not have been a
woman.  Perfection is detestable, and even goddesses need something
besides their deathless beauty to win love.

We went back through the tangled underwood to the path in the wood, and
thence returned to the river.

"Before we return," said the young girl, "I want to show you the
waterfall, more especially as I am looking forward to a little diversion
on my own account.  Come, Mervyn, come along, dear dog.  Oh, you are
lovely!"

We soon reached the bank facing the rocks which blocked the bed of the
river.  The water fell from a height of many feet into a large and
deeply sunk circular basin, which seemed to be shut in on all sides by
an amphitheatre of vegetation, broken by dripping rocks.  But there were
unseen outlets for the overflow of the little lake, and the streams so
formed reunited a little lower down.

"It is not exactly a Niagara," said Mlle. Marguerite, raising her voice
against the noise of the falling waters, "but I have heard connoisseurs
and artists say that it is rather pretty, nevertheless.  Have you
admired it?  Good!  Now I hope you’ll bestow any enthusiasm you may have
left on Mervyn.  Here, Mervyn!"

The Newfoundland ran to his mistress, and, trembling with impatience,
watched her while she tied some pebbles into her handkerchief.  She
threw it into the stream a little above the fall, and at the same moment
Mervyn fell like a block into the lower basin and struck out swiftly
from the edge.  The handkerchief followed the current, reached the
rocks, danced in an eddy for a minute, and then, shooting like an arrow
past the smooth rock, swept in a mass of foam under the eyes of the dog,
who seized it dexterously in his mouth, after which Mervyn returned
proudly to the bank, where Mlle. Marguerite stood clapping her hands.

This feat was performed several times with great success.  At the sixth
repetition, either because the dog started too late or because the
handkerchief was thrown too soon, Mervyn missed it.  The handkerchief,
swept on by the eddies from the fall, was carried among some thorny
brushwood that overhung the water a little farther on.  Mervyn went to
fetch it, but we were very much surprised to see him suddenly struggle
convulsively, drop his booty, and raise his head towards us, howling
pitifully.

"My God! what has happened?" exclaimed Mlle. Marguerite.

"He seems to be caught among the bushes. He’ll free himself directly, no
doubt."

But soon one had to doubt, and even to despair, of this issue.  The
network of creepers in which the dog had been caught lay directly below
one of the mouths of the sluice, which poured a mass of seething water
continuously on Mervyn’s head.  The poor beast, half-suffocated, ceased
to make the slightest effort to release himself, and his plaintive cries
sounded more and more like a death-rattle.  At this moment Mlle.
Marguerite seized my arm, and whispered almost in my ear:

"He is lost.  It’s no use....  Let us go."

I looked at her.  Grief, pain, and her violent effort to control herself
had distorted her pale features and brought dark circles under her eyes.

"It is impossible," I said, "to get the boat down there; but if you will
allow me, I can swim a little, and I’ll go and give a hand to the poor
fellow."

"No, no; don’t attempt it.  It’s too far. And they say it’s very deep
and dangerous under the fall."

"You needn’t fear, mademoiselle; I am very cautious."

At the same moment I took off my coat and went into the water, taking
care to keep a good distance from the fall.  It was very deep, and I did
not find a footing till I reached the exhausted Mervyn.  I do not know
whether there had been an islet here which had dwindled and crumbled
away, or whether a sudden rising of the river had swept away part of the
bank, and deposited the fragments in this place; but, whatever the
cause, there was an accumulated and flourishing mass of entangled
brushwood and roots under this treacherous water.  I got my feet on a
trunk from which the bushes seemed to spring, and managed to release
Mervyn.  Feeling himself free, he recovered at once, and struck out for
the bank, leaving me to my fate with all the goodwill imaginable.  This
was scarcely acting up to the chivalrous reputation of his breed, but
Mervyn has lived a long while among men, and I suppose has become a bit
of a philosopher.  But when I tried to follow him, I found, to my
disgust, that, in my turn, I was caught in the nets of the jealous and
malignant naiad who reigns in the pool.  One of my legs was entangled in
the creepers, and I could not free it. It is difficult to exert all
one’s strength in deep water, and on a bed of sticky mud.  And besides,
I was half-blinded by the bubbling spray.  In short, my situation was
becoming awkward.  I looked towards the bank; Mlle. Marguerite, holding
to Alain’s arm, hung over the gulf, and watched me with mortal anxiety.
I told myself that it rested with me to be wept for by those bright
eyes, and to end a miserable existence in an enviable fashion.  Then I
shook off such maudlin fancies vigorously, and freed myself by a violent
effort.  I tied the little handkerchief, now in rags, round my neck, and
easily regained the shore.

As I landed, Mlle. Marguerite offered me her hand.  It trembled a
little, and I was pleased.

"What rashness!  You might have been drowned, and for a dog!"

"It was yours," I whispered in the same low tone she had used to me.

This speech seemed to annoy her; she withdrew her hand quickly, and
turning to Mervyn, who lay yawning and drying himself in the sun, began
to punish him.

"Oh, the stupid! the big stupid!" she said. "What an idiot he is!"

But the water was streaming from my clothes on to the grass.  I did not
quite know what to do with myself, till Mlle. Marguerite came back, and
said very kindly:

"Take the boat, M. Maxime, and get away as fast as you can.  You’ll keep
warm rowing.  I will come back with Alain through the wood; it is the
shortest way."

I agreed to this arrangement, which was in every way the best.  I said
farewell, touched her hand for the second time, and got into the boat.
To my surprise, when I was dressing at home I found the little
handkerchief still round my neck. I had forgotten to restore it to Mlle.
Marguerite, who must have given it up for lost, so I shamelessly
determined to keep it as the reward of my watery adventure.

I went to the château in the evening.  Mlle. Laroque received me with
her habitual air of disdainful indolence, sombre preoccupation, and
embittered _ennui_, which was in singular contrast with the gracious
friendliness and playful vivacity of my companion of the morning.

During dinner, at which M. de Bévallan was present, she spoke of our
excursion in a manner that stripped it of all sentiment, and as she went
on, said some sharp things about lovers of nature, and finished with an
account of Mervyn’s misadventure, without mentioning my share in it.
If, as I thought, this was meant as a hint of the line I was to take,
the young lady had been at needless trouble.  However that may be, M. de
Bévallan, on hearing the story, nearly deafened us with his cries of
despair.  What!  Mlle. Marguerite had endured such anxiety, the brave
Mervyn had been in such danger, and he, Bévallan, had not been there.
Cruel fate!  He would never get over it. There was nothing for him to do
but hang himself, like Crillon.

"Well," said Alain, "if it depended on me to cut him down, I should take
my time about it."

The next day did not begin so pleasantly for me as its predecessor.  In
the morning I received a letter from Madrid, asking me to inform Mlle.
de Porhoët that her lawsuit was finally lost.  Her agent also informed
me that her opponents would not profit by their victory, as the Crown,
attracted by the millions at stake, claimed to succeed under the law by
which the property escheats to the state.

After careful consideration, I decided that it would be kinder not to
let my old friend know of the total destruction of her hopes.  I intend,
therefore, to secure the assistance of her agent in Spain; he will
allege further delays, and on my side I shall continue my researches
among the archives, and do my best to preserve the poor soul’s cherished
delusions to the end.  However innocent and legitimate this deception
might be, I could not feel at rest until it had been approved by some
one whose judgment in such matters I could trust.  I went to the château
in the afternoon, and made confession to Mme. Laroque, who approved of
my plan, and commended me rather more than the occasion warranted.  And
to my great surprise she finished the interview with these words:

"I must take this opportunity of telling you, M. Odiot, that I am deeply
grateful for your devotion to my interests, that each day I appreciate
your character more truly, and enjoy your company more thoroughly.  I
could wish—you must forgive my saying it, as you are scarcely likely to
share my wish—I could wish that you could always remain with us ... and
I humbly pray heaven to perform the miracles necessary to bring this
about ... for I know that only miracles can do so."

I did not quite grasp the meaning of this language, nor could I explain
the sudden emotion that shone in the eyes of the excellent lady.  I
acknowledged her kindness properly, and went away to indulge my
melancholy in the fields.

By an accident—not purely fortuitous, I must admit—I found myself, after
an hour’s walking, in a deserted valley, and on the brink of the pool
which had been the scene of my recent prowess. The amphitheatre of rocks
and greenery which surrounds the small lake realizes the very ideal of
solitude.  There you are at the end of the world, in a virgin country,
in China—where you will!  I lay down among the heather, recalling my
expedition of yesterday, one not likely to occur again in the course of
the longest life.  Already I felt that if such good fortune should come
to me a second time, it would not have that charm of surprise, of
peacefulness, and—in one word—of innocence.  I had to own that this
fresh romance of youth, which gave a perfume to my thoughts, could have
but one chapter, one page, and that I had read it.  Yes, this hour, this
hour of love, to call it by its true name, had been royally sweet,
because it had not been premeditated, because I had not known what it
was till it had gone, because I had had the rapture, and had been spared
remorse.  Now my conscience was awake.  I saw myself on the verge of an
impossible, a ridiculous love, and worse, of a culpable passion.  Poor
and disinherited as I am, it is time to keep a strict watch over myself.

I was addressing these warnings to myself in this solitary place—any
other would have served my purpose as well—when the sound of voices
interrupted my reflections.  I rose, and saw a company of four or five
people who had just landed, advancing towards me.  First came Mlle.
Marguerite leaning on M. de Bévallan’s arm; next Mlle. Hélouin and Mme.
Aubry, followed by Alain and Mervyn.  The sound of their approach had
been drowned in the roar of the waterfall; they were only a few yards
off; there was no time for retreat, so I had to resign myself to being
discovered in the character of the romantic recluse.  But my presence
did not excite any particular attention, though I saw a shadow of
annoyance on Mlle. Marguerite’s face, and she returned my bow with
marked stiffness.

M. de Bévallan, standing at the verge of the pool, wearied the echoes
with the clamour of his conventional admiration.  "Delicious!  How
picturesque!  What a feast!  The pen of George Sand....  The pencil of
Salvator Rosa!"

All this was accompanied by violent gestures, by which he appeared to be
snatching from these great artists, the instruments of their genius.

At last he became calmer, and asked to be shown the dangerous channel
where Mervyn had nearly been drowned.  Again Mlle. Marguerite related
the adventure, and again she suppressed the part I had taken in the
denouement.  With a kind of cruelty, evidently levelled at me, she
enlarged on the cleverness, courage, and presence of mind her dog had
shown in his trying situation. Apparently she seemed to think that her
transient good-humour, and the service I had been so fortunate as to
render her, had filled my head with some presumptuous notions, which it
was necessary to nip in the bud.

As Mlle. Hélouin and Mme. Aubry particularly wished to see Mervyn repeat
his wonderful exploit, his mistress called the Newfoundland, and, as
before, threw her handkerchief into the current.  But at the signal the
brave Mervyn, instead of jumping into the lake, rushed up and down the
bank, barking furiously, lashing about with his tail, showing, in fact,
the greatest interest in the proceedings, but at the same time an
excellent memory.  Evidently the head controls the heart in this
sagacious beast.  In vain Mlle. Marguerite, angry and confused, first
tried caresses and then threats to overcome her favourite’s obstinacy.
Nothing could persuade the intelligent creature to trust himself again
in those dangerous waters.  After such high-flown announcements,
Mervyn’s stubborn prudence was really amusing. I had a better right to
laugh than any one present, and I did so without compunction.  Besides,
the merriment soon became general, and in the end Mlle. Marguerite
herself joined in, rather half-heartedly.

"And now," she said, "I’ve lost another handkerchief."

The handkerchief, carried along by the eddies, had naturally landed
among the branches of the fatal bush, not far from the further bank.

"Rely upon me, mademoiselle," cried M. de Bévallan.  "In ten minutes you
shall have your handkerchief, or I shall exist no longer."

At this magnanimous declaration I thought that Mlle. Marguerite looked
stealthily at me, as much as to say, "You see, there are others who are
devoted to me!"  Then she answered M. de Bévallan.

"For Heaven’s sake, don’t be so foolish!  The water is very deep....  it
is really dangerous."

"It is all the same to me," said M. de Bévallan.  "Have you a knife,
Alain?"

"A knife?" said Mlle. Marguerite, surprised.

"Yes, a knife.  Please allow me ... I know what I mean to do."

"But what do you mean to do with a knife?"

"I mean to cut a switch," said M. de Bévallan.

The girl looked at him gravely.

"I thought," she murmured, "that you were going to swim for it."

"To swim!" said M. de Bévallan; "excuse me, mademoiselle....  Firstly, I
am not in swimming costume; next, I must admit that I cannot swim."

"If you cannot swim," she said dryly, "the question of costume is not
important."

"You are quite right," said M. de Bévallan, with amusing coolness; "but
you are not particularly anxious that I should drown myself, are you?
You want your handkerchief, that is the point.  When I have got it, you
will be satisfied.  Isn’t that so?"

"Well, go and cut your switch," she said, sitting down resignedly.

M. de Bévallan is not easily disconcerted. He disappeared into the
nearest thicket, and soon we heard the branches crack.  He came back
armed with a long switch from a nut-tree, and proceeded to strip the
leaves off.

"Do you think you’ll reach the other side with that stick?" asked Mlle.
Marguerite, who was beginning to be amused.

"Allow me to manage it my own way.  That is all I ask," said the
imperturbable gentleman.

We left him alone.  He finished his switch, and then set out for the
boat.  We at last understood that he meant to cross the river in the
boat, to land above the waterfall, and to harpoon the handkerchief,
which he could easily do from the bank.  At this discovery there was an
indignant outcry from the ladies, who, as we all know, are extremely
fond of dangerous adventures—in which they are not themselves concerned.

"A pretty contrivance, M. de Bévallan. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?"

"Tu-tu, ladies!  Remember Columbus and the egg.  The idea is everything,
you know."

Contrary to our expectation, this apparently harmless expedition was not
to be carried through without some emotions, and some risks, for M. de
Bévallan, instead of making for the bank immediately opposite the little
bay, where the boat had been moored, unluckily decided to land nearer
the cataract.  He pushed the boat into the middle of the stream and let
it drift for a moment, till he saw that as the river approached the
fall, its pace increased with alarming rapidity. We appreciated the
danger when we saw him put the boat across the current, and begin to row
with feverish energy.  For a few seconds he struggled with doubtful
success.  But, little by little, he got nearer to the bank, though the
stream still swept him fiercely towards the cataract, which thundered
ominously in his ears. He was only a few feet from it, when a supreme
effort brought him near enough to the shore to put him out of danger.
With a vigorous spring he leaped on to the slope of the bank, sending
the boat out among the rocks, where it was at once overturned.  It
presently floated into the pool keel upward.  While the danger lasted,
our only feeling was one of keen anxiety, but when it was over, the
contrast between the comic _dénouement_ and its hero’s usual coolness
and self-confidence, could not fail to tickle our sense of humour.
Besides, laughter is a natural relief when a danger is happily past.
Directly we saw that M. de Bévallan was out of the boat, we all gave
ourselves up to unrestrained merriment.  I should say, that at this
moment his bad luck was completed by a truly distressing detail.  The
bank on which he had jumped sloped sharply and was very wet.  His feet
had scarcely touched it when he fell backwards.  Fortunately there were
some strong branches within his reach.  He hung on to them desperately,
his legs beating the shallow water like two angry oars.  As there was no
danger, his situation became purely ridiculous, and I suppose that this
thought made him struggle so frantically and awkwardly, that his efforts
defeated their purpose.  He succeeded, however, in raising himself and
getting another footing on the slope.  Then, all of a sudden, we saw him
slide down again, tearing the bushes and brushwood as he went, and
renewing his wild pantomime in the water in evident desperation.  It was
irresistible.  Never, I believe, had Mlle. Marguerite been at such an
entertainment.  She had utterly lost all care for her dignity.  Like
some mirthful Bacchante, she filled all the grove with bursts of almost
convulsive gaiety. Between her shouts of laughter she clapped her hands
and called out in a half-suffocated voice:

"Bravo! bravo!  M. de Bévallan!  Very pretty! Delicious!  Picturesque!
Salvator Rosa!"

At last M. de Bévallan succeeded in dragging himself to _terra firma_.
Then, turning to the ladies, he made them a speech which the noise of
the waterfall prevented us from hearing distinctly; but, from his
animated gestures, the illustrative movements of his arms, and his air
of forced good-humour, we understood that he was giving us a reasoned
explanation of his disaster.

"Yes, yes," replied Mlle. Marguerite, continuing to laugh with a woman’s
implacable barbarity. "it was a great success.  I congratulate you!"

When she was a little more serious, she asked me how we should recover
the capsized boat, which, by-the-bye, was the best we had.  I promised
to bring some men the next day, and superintend the rescue.  Then we
struck across the fields towards the château.  M. de Bévallan, not being
in swimming costume, could not rejoin us.  With a melancholy air he
disappeared behind the rocks above the farther bank.


                                                          _August 20th_.

At last this extraordinary girl has revealed the secret of her stormy
soul to me.  Would that she had preserved it forever!

During the day that followed the scenes I have just described, Mlle.
Marguerite, as if ashamed of the impulses of youthful frankness to which
she had yielded, wrapped herself more closely than ever in her veil of
mournful pride, disdain, and mistrust.  In the midst of the noisy
pleasures, the _fêtes_, and dances that succeeded one another, she
passed like a ghost, indifferent, icy, and sometimes angry.

Her irony vented itself with inconceivable bitterness, sometimes on the
purest pleasures of the mind, those that come from contemplation and
study, sometimes on the noblest and most sacred sentiments.  If an
instance of courage or virtue was mentioned in her presence, she
examined it minutely in search of its selfish motive; or if by chance
one burned the smallest grain of incense on the altar of art, she
extinguished it with a disdainful wave of her hand.  With her short,
abrupt, and terrible laugh, like the mocking of a fallen angel, she
seemed determined to blight (wherever she saw a trace of them) the most
generous faculties of the human soul—enthusiasm and passion. I noticed
that this strange spirit of disparagement took on a special character of
persecution—positive hostility—when directed against me.  I did not
understand, and even now I do not quite understand, why I have attracted
these particular attentions. True, I carry in my heart the worship of
things ideal and eternal, which only death can tear from me (great God,
what would be left me if I had not that!); but I am not given to public
ecstasies, and my admiration, like my love, will never be obtrusive.  In
vain I maintained more scrupulously than ever the modesty which springs
from real feeling.  I gained nothing by it.  The most romantic fancies
were attributed to me just for the pleasure of combating them, and
perpetually some kind of grotesque harp was thrust into my hands, solely
for the amusement of breaking its strings.

Although this open warfare against anything higher than the material
interests and sordid realities of life, was not a new trait in Mlle.
Marguerite’s character, it had been suddenly exaggerated and embittered
to the point of wounding the hearts most devoted to this young girl.
One day Mlle. de Porhoët, weary of this incessant mocking, said to her
in my presence:

"My darling, for some time past you have been possessed by a devil which
you would do well to cast out as soon as possible, or you will finish by
making up a trio with Mme. Aubry and Mme. de Saint-Cast.  For my part, I
do not pride myself on being, or ever having been, particularly
romantic, but I like to think that there are still some people in the
world who are capable of generous sentiments; I believe in
disinterestedness, if only in my own, and I even believe in heroism,
because I have known heroes.  More, I love to hear the little birds
singing under my arbour, and I like to build my cathedral in the
drifting clouds.  All this may sound very ridiculous, my dear, but I
venture to remind you that these illusions are the riches of the poor,
that M. Odiot and I have no other kind of wealth, and that we are so
singular as not to complain."

On another occasion, when I had just received Mlle. Marguerite’s sarcasm
with my usual impassibility, her mother drew me aside.

"M. Maxime," she said, "my daughter teases you a little, but I hope you
will excuse her.  You must have noticed that she has changed very much
lately."

"Your daughter seems to be more preoccupied than usual."

"And not without good reason; she is about to come to a very serious
decision, and at such a moment young girls are apt to be capricious."

I bowed and said nothing.

"You are now a friend of the family," continued Mme. Laroque, "and as
such I ask you to give me your opinion of M. de Bévallan."

"I believe, madame, that M. de Bévallan has a very handsome fortune—not
so large as yours, but undeniably handsome—about a hundred and fifty
thousand francs a year!"

"Yes, but what do you think of him personally, and of his character?"

"M. de Bévallan is what the world calls a perfect gentleman.  He has
wit; he is considered an honourable man."

"But do you think he will make my daughter happy?"

"I do not think he will make her unhappy. He is not unkind."

"What do you think I ought to do?  I am not entirely satisfied with him
... but he is the only one Marguerite at all cares for ... and there are
so few men with a hundred thousand francs a year.  You can understand
that my daughter—in her position—has had plenty of offers.  For the last
two or three years we have been literally besieged....  Well, it is time
we decided....  I am not strong....  I may go any day....  My daughter
would be unprotected. Here is an unexceptionable suitor whom the world
will certainly approve—it is my duty to welcome him.  Already people say
that I have filled my daughter’s head with romantic notions—which is not
the truth.  She has her own ideas. Now, what do you advise me to do?"

"May I ask what is Mlle. de Porhoët’s opinion?  She is a lady of great
judgment and experience, and besides, entirely devoted to you."

"Oh, if I listened to Mlle. de Porhoët I should send M. de Bévallan
about his business. But it is all very well for Mlle. de Porhoët to
talk.  When he’s gone, she won’t marry my daughter for me."

"But, madame, from the monetary point of view, M. de Bévallan is
certainly a fine match.  I do not dispute it for a moment, and if you
stand out for a hundred thousand francs a year."

"But, my dear sir, I care no more for a hundred thousand francs than for
a hundred pence! However, I am not talking of myself, but of my
daughter.  Well, I can’t let her marry a mason, can I?  I should have
rather liked to be the wife of a mason, but it does not follow that what
would have made me happy would make her so.  I ought, in marrying her,
to be guided by received opinion, not merely by my own."

"Well, then, madame, if this marriage suits you, and suits your daughter
equally well..."

"Ah, no! ... it does not suit me ... nor does it suit my daughter any
better.  It is a marriage ... to speak plainly, it is _un mariage de
convenance_."

"Am I to understand that it is quite settled?"

"No, or I should scarcely ask your advice.  If it were, my daughter
would be more at ease.  Her misgivings disturb her, and then..."

Mme. Laroque sank back into the shadow of the hood over her chair and
added:

"Have _you_ any idea of what is going on in that unfortunate head?"

"None, madame."

She fixed her sparkling eyes on me for a moment, sighed deeply, and
said, gently and sadly:

"You may go ... I won’t detain you any longer."

The confidence with which I had just been honoured, had not surprised me
much.  For some time it had been evident that Mlle. Marguerite reserved
for M. de Bévallan whatever sympathy she had left for humanity.  But she
seemed to show rather a friendly preference than an impassioned
tenderness.  And I ought to say that the preference was quite
intelligible.  I have never liked M. de Bévallan, and in these pages I
have, in spite of myself, given a caricature rather than a portrait of
him, but I admit that he combines most of the qualities and defects that
are popular with women.  He is absolutely devoid of modesty, which is a
great advantage, as women do not like it.  He has the cool, mocking, and
witty assurance which nothing can daunt, which easily daunts others, and
which gives to its possessor a kind of domination and a factitious
superiority. His tall figure, his bold features, his skill in athletic
exercises, his reputation as a sportsman, give him a manly authority
which impresses the timid sex.  And he has an air of daring, enterprise,
and conquest which attracts and troubles women, and fills their souls
with secret ardour.  Such advantages, it is true, are, as a rule,
chiefly impressive to vulgar natures; but though, as usual, I had at
first been tempted to put Mlle. Marguerite’s nature on a level with her
beauty, she had for some time past seemed to make a positive parade of
very mediocre sentiments, and I believed she was capable of yielding
without resistance as without enthusiasm, and with the passive coldness
of a lifeless imagination, to the charms of a common-place lady-killer,
and, later, to the yoke of a respectable marriage.

AH this made it necessary for me to accept the inevitable, and I did so
more easily than I should have thought possible a month ago.  For I had
summoned all my courage to combat the first temptations of a love,
equally condemned by good sense and by honour.  And she who had
unwittingly imposed this combat on me, had also unwittingly powerfully
helped me in my resistance. If she could not hide her beauty from me,
she also unveiled her soul, and mine had recoiled. Small loss, no doubt,
for the young millionaire, but a good thing for me.

Meanwhile I had to go to Paris, partly on Mme. Laroque’s business and
partly on my own. I returned two days ago, and as I arrived at the
château I was told that old M. Laroque had repeatedly asked for me since
the morning.  I hurried to his apartment.  A smile flickered across his
withered cheeks as he saw me.  He looked at me with an expression of
malignant joy and secret triumph; then he said, in his dull, hollow
voice:

"M. de Saint-Cast is dead."

This news, which the strange old man had wanted to tell me himself, was
correct.  On the previous night poor General de Saint-Cast had had a
stroke of apoplexy, and an hour later had been snatched from the life of
wealth and luxury which he owed to his wife.  Directly the news came to
the château, Mme. Aubry had started off to her friend, and the two had,
as Dr. Desmarets told us, passed the day chanting a sort of litany of
original and piquant ideas on the subject of death—the swiftness with
which it strikes its prey, the impossibility of preventing or guarding
against it, the futility of regrets, which cannot bring back the
departed, the consoling effects of time, etc., etc.

After which they sat down to dinner, and gradually recovered their
spirits.  "Madame," said Mme. Aubry, "you must eat, you must keep
yourself alive.  It is our duty and the will of God."

At dessert Mme. de Saint-Cast had a bottle of the poor general’s
favourite Spanish wine, and begged Mme. Aubry to taste it for his sake.
But, as Mme. Aubry firmly refused to be the only one to partake of it,
Mme. de Saint-Cast allowed herself to be persuaded that God also wished
her to have a glass of Spanish wine and a crust of bread. The general’s
health was not drunk.  Early yesterday morning, Mme. Laroque and her
daughter, both in mourning, took their places in the carriage.  I
accompanied them.  About ten o’clock we were at the little town.  While
I attended the general’s funeral, the ladies joined the widow’s circle
of official sympathizers.  After the service I returned to the house,
and with some other friends I was introduced into the famous
drawing-room, the furniture of which had cost fifteen thousand francs.
In the funereal half-light I distinguished the inconsolable Mme. de
Saint-Cast sitting on a twelve-hundred-franc sofa, enveloped in crape,
the price of which we were told before long.  At her side was Mme.
Aubry, an image of physical and moral prostration.  Half a dozen friends
and relatives completed this doleful group. As we took up our positions
in line at the farther end of the _salon_, there was a sound of
shuffling feet and some cracking of the parquet, then gloomy silence
fell again on this mausoleum. Only from time to time a lamentable sigh,
faithfully echoed by Mme. Aubry, rose from the sofa.

At last a young man appeared.  He had lingered in the street to finish
the cigar he had lighted as he left the cemetery.  As he slipped
discreetly into our ranks Mme. de Saint-Cast perceived him.

"Is that you, Arthur?" she said in a lugubrious voice.

"Yes, aunt," said the young man, advancing in front of the line.

"Well," continued the widow, in the same plaintive drawl, "is it over?"

"Yes, aunt," said Arthur, in curt, deliberate accents.  He seemed to be
a young man who was perfectly satisfied with himself.

There was a pause, after which Mme. de Saint-Cast drew from the depths
of her expiring soul this new series of questions:

"Did it go off well?"

"Very well, aunt, very well."

"Were there many people?"

"The whole town, aunt, the whole town."

"The military?"

"Yes, aunt, the whole garrison, and the band."

Mme. de Saint-Cast groaned, and added:

"The fire brigade?"

"The fire brigade too, aunt—certainly."

I do not quite see why this last detail should have particularly
affected Mme. de Saint-Cast, but she could not resist it.  A sudden
swoon, accompanied by infantile wailings, summoned all the resources of
feminine sensibility to her aid, and gave us the opportunity of slipping
away.  I was glad of it.  I could not bear to see this ridiculous vixen
performing her hypocritical mummeries over the tomb of the weak, but
good and loyal fellow, whose life she had embittered, and whose end she
had probably hastened.

A few moments later, Mme. Laroque asked me to accompany her to the
Langoat farm, five or six leagues farther on towards the coast.  She
intended to dine there with her daughter.  The farmer’s wife, who had
been Mlle. Marguerite’s nurse, was ill, and the ladies had for some time
meant to give her this proof of their interest in her welfare.  We
started at two o clock in the afternoon.  It was one of the hottest days
of this hot summer.  Through the open windows of the carriage, the
heavy, burning gusts which rose in waves from the parched _lande_ under
the torrid sky, swept across us.

The conversation suffered from our oppression. Mme. Laroque, who
declared that she was in paradise, had at last thrown off her furs and
remained sunk in a gentle ecstasy.  Mlle. Marguerite fanned herself with
Spanish gravity.  While we slowly climbed the interminable hills, we saw
the calcined rocks swarming with legions of silver-coated lizards, and
heard the continuous crackling of the furze opening its ripe pods to the
sun.

In the middle of one of our laborious ascents a voice suddenly called
out from the side of the road:

"Stop, if you please."

At the same time a big girl with bare legs, holding a distaff in her
hand, and wearing the ancient costume and ducal coif of the peasants of
this country, leaped quickly across the ditch, knocking over as she came
along some of the sheep she was tending.  She perched herself with a
kind of grace on the carriage-step, and stood before us with her brown,
self-possessed, and smiling face framed in the window.

"Pardon, ladies," she said in the quick, melodious tones of her country,
"will you be so kind as to read this to me?"

She took from her bodice a letter folded in the ancient fashion.

"Read it, M. Odiot," said Mme. Laroque, laughing, "and read it aloud, if
necessary."

It was a love-letter, addressed very carefully to Mlle. Christine
Ogadec, ——’s Farm, in the commune of ——, near ——.  It was written by an
awkward but sincere hand.  The date showed that Mlle. Christine had
received it two or three weeks ago.  Not being able to read, and fearing
to trust her secret to the ill-nature of her associates, the poor girl
had kept the letter in the hope that some passing stranger, at once
good-natured and educated, would interpret the mystery that had been
burning in her bosom for more than a fortnight. Her blue, wide-opened
eyes were fixed on me with an air of ineffable satisfaction as I
laboriously read the sloping lines which conveyed this message:

"Mademoiselle, this is to tell you that my intentions have not changed
since the day we spoke on the _lande_ after vespers, and that I am
anxious about yours.  My heart is all yours, mademoiselle, and I wish
yours to be all mine; and if it is you may be sure and certain that no
one alive is happier on earth or in heaven than your friend—who does not
put his name here, but you know quite well who he is, mademoiselle."

"And do you know, Mlle. Christine?" I said, returning the letter.

"Very likely I do," she said, with a smile that showed her white teeth,
while she gravely nodded, her young face radiant with happiness.  "Thank
you, ladies and gentleman!"

She jumped off the step and soon disappeared among the bushes, chanting
as she went the deep and joyful notes of some Bretonne ballad.

Mme. Laroque had followed with evident rapture all the details of this
pastoral scene, which harmonized deliciously with her favourite fancies.
She smiled and dreamed at the vision of this happy, barefooted girl as
if she were under a spell.  However, when Mlle. Ogadec was out of sight,
a strange notion came into Mme. Laroque’s head.  After all, she thought,
it would not have been a bad thing to have given the girl a five-franc
piece—in addition to her admiration.

"Call her back, Alain," she cried.

"But, mother, why?" said Mlle. Marguerite quickly, though so far she had
apparently taken no notice of the incident.

"My dear child, perhaps this girl does not thoroughly understand how
much I should enjoy, and how much she ought to enjoy, running about
barefooted in the dust.  It would be nice, at any rate, to leave her
some little souvenir."

"Money!" replied Mlle. Marguerite.  "Oh, mother, don’t!  Don’t soil her
happiness with money."

This delicate sentiment—which, by the way, poor Christine might not have
appreciated—was astonishing enough in the mouth of Mlle. Marguerite, who
did not, as a rule, pride herself on such subtlety.  Indeed, I thought
she was joking, though she showed no signs of amusement. However that
may be, her mother took the caprice very seriously.  It was decided
enthusiastically to leave this idyll to innocence and bare feet.

After this pretty episode Mme. Laroque relapsed into her smiling
ecstasy, and Mlle. Marguerite fanned herself more seriously than ever.
An hour later we reached our destination.  Like most of the farms in
this country, where the uplands and plateaux are the sterile _lande_,
the farm of Langoat lies in the hollow of a valley, with a water-course
running through it.

The farmer’s wife was better, and at once set to work preparing dinner,
the chief elements of which we had been careful to bring with us.  It
was served on the natural lawn of a meadow, under the shade of an
enormous chestnut. Mme. Laroque, though sitting in a most uncomfortable
attitude, on one of the cushions from the carriage, seemed perfectly
radiant.  She said our party reminded her of the groups of reapers we
see crowding under the shade of a hedge, whose rustic feasts she had
always envied.  As for me, I might perhaps at another time have found a
singular sweetness in the close and easy intimacy, which an outdoor meal
of this kind usually creates among the guests.  But, with a painful
feeling of constraint, I thrust away an enjoyment that might inflict
regret, and the bread of this transient fraternity was bitter in my
mouth.

"Have you ever been up there?" said Mme. Laroque to me as we finished
dinner.  She indicated the top of a lofty hill which commanded the
meadow we were in.

"No, madame."

"Oh, but you should go.  You get such a lovely view.  You must see it
... Marguerite will take you while they’re putting the horses in. Won’t
you?"

"I, mother?  I have only been there once, and it was a long time ago ...
However, I daresay I can find the way.  Come, M. Odiot, and be prepared
for a stiff climb."

Mlle. Marguerite and I started at once to climb a very steep path which
wound along the side of the mountain, passing in some places through
clumps of trees.  The girl stopped from time to time in her swift and
easy ascent to see if I were following her, and, panting a little,
smiled at me without speaking.  On reaching the bare heath which formed
the plateau, I saw, a short way off, a village church, the lines of its
little steeple sharply defined against the sky.

"That’s where it is," said my young guide, quickening her pace.

Beyond the church was a cemetery shut in by walls.  She opened the gate,
and made her way with difficulty through the tall grass and trailing
brambles, which choked the place of rest, towards a kind of semicircular
_perron_ which stood at the farther end.  Two or three rough steps,
defaced by time and rather strangely ornamented with massive balls, led
to a narrow platform raised to the level of the wall.  A granite cross
stood in the centre of the semicircle.

Mlle. Marguerite had scarcely reached the platform and looked into the
space that opened before her, when I saw her place her hand before her
eyes as if she were suddenly dazzled.  I hastened to join her.  The
beautiful day, nearing to its end, lighted with its last splendours a
scene so vast, so strange, and so sublime, that I shall never forget it.

[Illustration: "I fell on my knees, I could not keep back my tears" (see
page 245)]

Facing us, and at a great depth below the platform, extended, farther
than we could see, a sort of marsh studded with shining patches, and
looking like a region slowly emerging from a deluge.  This great bay
stretched from under our feet to the heart of the jagged mountains.  On
the banks of mud and sand which separated the shifting lagoons, a growth
of reeds and sea plants tinged with a thousand shades, sombre but
distinct, contrasted sharply with the gleaming surfaces of the waters.
At each of its rapid strides to the horizon, the sun lit up or darkened
some of the many lakes which checkered the half-dried gulf.  He seemed
to take in turn from his celestial casket the most precious
substances—silver and gold, ruby and diamond—and make them flash on each
point of this gorgeous plain.  As the planet neared the end of his
career, a strip of undulating mist at the farther limit of the marshes,
reddened all at once with the glare of a conflagration, and for a
moment, kept the radiant transparency of a cloud furrowed by lightning.
I was absorbed in the contemplation of a picture so full of divine
grandeur, and enriched as with another ray of glory by the great memory
of Cæsar, when a low, half-stifled voice murmured:

"Oh, how beautiful it is!"

I had not expected this sympathetic outburst from my companion.  I
turned eagerly towards her with a surprise that was not lessened, when
the emotion in her face, and the slight trembling of her lips, had
convinced me of the profound sincerity of her admiration.

"You admit that it is beautiful?" I said to her.

She shook her head; but at the same moment two tears fell slowly from
her great eyes.  She felt them rolling down her cheeks, made a gesture
of annoyance, and then throwing herself suddenly on the granite cross,
on the base of which she was standing, she embraced it with both hands,
pressed her head close against the stone, and sobbed convulsively.

I did not think it right to say a word that might trouble the course of
this sudden emotion, and I turned reverently away.  After a moment,
seeing her raise her forehead, and hastily replace her loosened hair, I
came nearer.

"I am ashamed of myself," she murmured.

"You have more reason to rejoice.  Believe me, you must give up trying
to destroy the source of those tears; it is holy.  Besides, you will
never succeed."

"I must," said the girl desperately.  "See, it is done!  This weakness
took me by surprise.  I want to hate everything that is good and
beautiful."

"In God’s name, why?"

"Because I am beautiful, and I can never be loved."

Then, as a long-repressed torrent bursts its barriers at last, she
continued, with extraordinary energy:

"It is true."

She put her hand on her heaving bosom.

"God had put into this heart all the qualities that I ridicule, that I
blaspheme every hour of the day.  But when he condemned me to be rich,
he withdrew with one hand all that he had lavished with the other.  What
is the good of my beauty? What is the good of the devotion, tenderness,
and enthusiasm which I feel burning within me? These are not the charms
which make so many cowards weary me with their homage.  I see it I know
it—I know it too well.  And if ever some disinterested, generous, and
heroic soul loved me for what I am, and not for what I have ... I should
never know ... never believe it. Eternal mistrust!  That is my
sentence—that is my torture.  So I have decided ... I will never love.
I will never pour into some vile, worthless, and venal heart the pure
passion which is burning in mine.  My soul will die virgin in my bosom.
Well, I am resigned, but—everything that is beautiful, everything that
sets me dreaming, everything that speaks to me of realms forbidden,
everything that stirs these vain fires in me—I thrust it away, I hate
it, I will have nothing to do with it."

She stopped, trembling; then, in a lower tone, she said:

"Monsieur, I did not seek this opportunity. I have not chosen my words
... I did not mean to tell you, but I have spoken ... you know all, and
if at any time I have wounded your feelings, I think you will forgive me
now."

She held out her hand.  When my lips touched that soft hand, still wet
with tears, a mortal languor stole through my veins.  Marguerite turned
her head away, looked into the sombre sky, and then slowly descended the
steps.

"Let us go," she said.

Another road, longer, but easier than the steep ascent of the mountain,
brought us into the farmyard.  Neither of us spoke a single word the
whole way.  What could I have said, I who was more to be suspected than
any other?  I felt that every word from my overcharged heart would
separate me still further from this stormy, but adorable soul.

Night had fallen, and hid from every one the signs of our common
emotion.  We drove away. After telling us again how much she had enjoyed
her day, Mme. Laroque gave herself up to dreaming about it.  Mlle.
Marguerite, invisible and motionless in the deep shadow, seemed also to
be sleeping; but when a bend in the road caused a ray of pale light to
fall upon her, the fixed and open eyes showed that she was wakeful and
silent, beset by the thought that caused her despair.  I can scarcely
say what I felt.  A strange sensation of deep joy and deep bitterness
possessed me entirely.  I yielded to it as one sometimes yields
consciously to a dream the charm of which we are not strong enough to
resist.

We reached home about midnight.

I got down at the beginning of the avenue, and took the short way
through the park to my quarters.  Entering a dim alley, I heard a faint
sound of voices and approaching footsteps, and saw vaguely in the
darkness two shadowy figures. It was late enough to justify me in
stepping into a clump of trees, to watch these nocturnal wanderers.
They passed slowly in front of me.  I recognised Mlle. Hélouin; she was
leaning on M. de Bévallan’s arm.  At this moment the sound of the
carriage alarmed them; they shook hands and separated hurriedly, Mlle.
Hélouin going towards the château, the other to the woods.

In my own room, fresh from my adventure, I asked myself indignantly
whether I was to allow M. de Bévallan to carry on his double love affair
uninterrupted, and to let him find a _fiancée_ and a mistress in the
same house.  I am too much a man of my age and time to feel the
Puritan’s horror of certain weaknesses, and I am not hypocrite enough to
affect what I do not feel.  But I believe that the morality which is
easiest and most indulgent in this respect, still demands some degree of
dignity, self-respect, and delicacy.  Even in these devious ways a man
must walk straight to some extent.  The real excuse of love is that it
_is_ love.  But M. de Bévallan’s catholic tendernesses exclude all
possibility of self-forgetful passion. Such love-affairs are not even
sins; they are something altogether lower in the moral scale; they are
but the calculations and the wagers of brutalized horse-dealers.

The various incidents of this evening, combined to convince me, that
this man was utterly unworthy of the hand and heart he dared to covet.
Such a union would be monstrous.  But I saw at once, that I should not
be able to prevent it by using the weapons that chance had put into my
hands.  The best of objects does not justify base methods, and nothing
can excuse the informer. This marriage will take place, and heaven will
permit one of its noblest creatures to fall into the arms of a
cold-hearted libertine.  It will permit that profanation.  Alas, it
allows so many others!

I tried to imagine how this young girl could have chosen this man, by
what process of false reasoning she had come to prefer him to all
others. I think I have guessed.  M. de Bévallan is very rich; he brings
a fortune nearly equal to the one he acquires.  That is a kind of
guarantee; he could do without this additional wealth; he is assumed to
be more disinterested than others, because he is better off.

How foolish an argument!  What a terrible mistake to estimate people’s
venality by the amount of their wealth!  In nine cases out of ten,
opulence increases greed!  The most self-seeking are not the poorest!

Was there, then, no hope that Marguerite would see the worthlessness of
her choice, no hope that her own heart would give her the counsel I
could not suggest?  Might not a new, unlooked-for feeling arise in her
heart, and, breathing on the vain resolutions of reason, destroy them?
Was not this feeling already born, indeed, and had I not received
irrefutable proofs of it?  The strange caprices, the humiliations,
struggles, and tears of which I had been so long the object, or the
witness, proclaimed beyond doubt a reason that wavered, not mistress of
itself.  I had seen enough of life, to know that a scene like that of
which chance had this evening made me the confidant, and almost the
accomplice, does not, however spontaneous it may seem, occur in an
atmosphere of indifference.  Such emotions, such shocks, prove that
there are two souls already shaken by the same storm, or about to be so
shaken.

But if it were true, if she loved me, as too certainly I loved her, I
might say of that love what she had said of her beauty: "What is the
good of it?"  For I could never hope that it would be strong enough to
triumph over the eternal mistrust, which is at once the defect, and
quality, of that noble girl.  My character, I dare say it, resents the
outrage of this mistrust; but my situation, more than that of any other,
is calculated to rouse it.  What miracle is to bridge the abyss between
these suspicions, and the reserve they force upon me?

Finally, granting the miracle, if she offered me the hand for which I
would give my life, but for which I will never ask, would our union be
happy?  Should I not have to fear, early or late, in this restless
imagination, the slow awakening of a half-stifled mistrust?  Could I, in
the midst of wealth not mine, guard myself against misgivings? Could I
really be happy in a love that is sullied by being a benefit as well?
Our part as the protector of women is so strictly laid upon us by all
sentiments of honour, that it cannot, even from the highest motives, be
reversed for an instant without casting upon us some shadow of doubt and
suspicion.  Truly, wealth is not so great an advantage that we cannot
find some counterpoise to it.  I imagine that a man who brings his wife,
in exchange for some bags of gold, a name that he has made illustrious,
acknowledged worth, a great position, or the promise of a great future,
does not feel that he is under a crushing obligation.  But my hands are
empty, my future is no better than my present; of all the advantages
which the world worships I have only one—my title—and I am determined
not to bear it, that it may not be said it was the price of a bargain.
I should receive all and give nothing.  A king may marry a shepherdess;
that is generous and charming, and we congratulate him with good reason;
but a shepherd who lets a queen marry him does not cut so fine a figure.

I have spent the night thinking these things over, and seeking a
solution that I have not yet found.  Perhaps I ought to leave this house
and this place at once.  Prudence counsels it.  This business cannot end
well.  How often one minute of courage and firmness would spare us a
lifetime of regret!  I ought at least to be overwhelmed by sadness; I
have never had such good reason for melancholy.  But I cannot grieve.
My brain, distracted and tortured, yet holds a thought which dominates
everything, and fills me with more than mortal joy.  My soul is as light
as a bird of the air.  I see—I shall always see—that little cemetery,
that distant ocean, that vast horizon, and on that glowing hilltop, that
angel of beauty bathed in divine tears!  Still, I feel her hand under my
lips, her tears in my eyes and in my heart.  I love her!  Well,
to-morrow, if so it must be, I will decide.  Till then, for God’s sake,
let me have a little rest.  I have not been overdone with happiness.  I
may die of this love, but I will live in peace with it for one day at
least.


                                                          _August 26th_.

That day, the single day I asked, has not been granted me.  My brief
weakness has not had long to wait for its punishment, which will be
lasting. How could I have forgotten?  Moral laws can no more be broken
with impunity than physical, and their invariable action constitutes the
permanent intervention of what we call Providence in the affairs of this
world.  A great, though weak man, writing the gospel of a sage with the
hand of a quasi-maniac, said of the passions that were at once his
misery, his reproach, and his glory:

"All are good while we are their masters; all are bad when we let them
enslave us.  Nature forbids us to let our attachments exceed our
strength; reason forbids us to desire what we cannot obtain; conscience
does not forbid us to be tempted, it does forbid us to yield to
temptation. It does not rest with us to have or not to have passions,
but it does rest with us to control them.  All the feelings which we
govern are legitimate; all those that govern us are criminal. Attach
your heart only to the beauty that does not perish; limit your desires
by your conditions; put your duties before your passions; extend the law
of necessity to things moral; learn to lose what may be taken from you;
learn to give up everything at the command of virtue!"

Yes, such is the law.  I knew it; I have broken it; I am punished.  It
is right.  I had scarcely set foot on my cloud of folly when I was
thrown violently off, and now, after five days, I have barely courage to
recount the almost ridiculous details of my downfall.

Mme. Laroque and her daughter had gone in the morning to pay another
visit to Mme. de Saint-Cast, and to bring back Mme. Aubry.  I found
Mlle. Hélouin alone at the château.  I had brought her quarter’s salary;
for, though my duties do not, in a general way, trench on the
maintenance and internal discipline of the house, the ladies had wished,
no doubt from consideration for Mlle. Hélouin and for me, that I should
pay both our salaries.  The young lady was sitting in the small boudoir
near the dining-room. She received me with a pensive sweetness which
touched me.  For at that moment I felt in myself that fulness of heart
which inclines us to confidence and kindness.  I quixotically resolved
to hold out a helping hand to this poor lonely creature.

"Mademoiselle," I said, abruptly, "you have withdrawn your friendship
from me, but my friendship for you remains unaltered.  May I give you a
proof of it?"

She looked at me and murmured a timid assent.

"Well, my poor child, you are bent on your own ruin."

She rose quickly.

"You saw me in the park that night!" she cried.

"I did."

"My God!"

She came towards me.

"M. Maxime, I swear to you that I am a virtuous girl."

"I believe it, mademoiselle, but I must warn you that in this little
romance, perfectly innocent, no doubt, on your side, whatever it may be
on the other, you are imperilling your reputation and your peace of
mind.  I beg you to reflect seriously on this matter, and at the same
time I beg to assure you that no one but you will ever hear a word on
this subject from me."

I was leaving the room, when she sank on her knees before a couch, and
burst out sobbing, leaning her forehead against my hand, which she had
seized.  It was not long since I had seen sweeter and nobler tears, but
still I was touched.

"Come, my dear young lady," I said; "it is not too late, is it?"

She shook her head decisively.

"Very well, my child.  Be brave, and we will save you.  What can I do to
help you—tell me? Has this man any proof, any letter, I can demand from
him on your behalf?  Command me as if I were your brother."

She released my hand angrily.

"How hard you are!" she said.  "You talk of saving me ... it is you who
are ruining me. After pretending to love me, you repulsed me ... you
have humiliated me and made me desperate. You are the sole cause of what
has happened."

"Mademoiselle, you are unjust.  I never pretended to love you.  I had a
sincere affection for you, and I have it still.  I admit that your
beauty, your wit, and your talents fully entitle you to look for more
than fraternal friendship from those who see you every day.  But my
situation, and my duties to my family preclude my indulging any other
feeling for you without being dishonourable.  I tell you frankly that I
think you are charming, and I assure you that in restricting my
sentiments towards you within the limits imposed by loyalty, I have not
been without merit.  I see nothing humiliating for you in that; what
might, indeed, humiliate you, mademoiselle, would be the determined
pursuit of a man determined not to marry you."

She gave me an evil look.

"What do you know about it?" she said. "Every man is not a
fortune-hunter."

"Oh! mademoiselle, are you a spiteful little person?" I said, very
calmly.  "If so, I will wish you good-day."

"M. Maxime!" she cried, rushing forward to stop me, "forgive me! have
pity on me!  Alas! I am so unhappy.  Imagine what must be the thoughts
of a poor creature like me, who has been given—cruelly—a heart, a soul,
a brain ... and who can only use them to suffer ... and to hate!  What
is my life?  What is my future? My life is the perception of my poverty,
ceaselessly aggravated by the luxury which surrounds me!  My future will
be to regret, some day, to weep bitterly for even this life—this slave’s
life, odious as it is!  You talk of my youth, my wit, and my talents.
Would that I had never had the capacity for anything higher than
breaking stones on the road!  I should have been happier.  My talents!
I shall have passed the best part of my life in decking another woman
with them, and giving her thereby additional beauty, power—and
insolence.  And when my best blood has passed into this doll’s veins,
she will go off on the arm of a happy husband to take her part in the
best pleasures of life, while, old, solitary, and deserted, I shall go
to die in some hole with the pension of a lady’s maid.  What have I done
to deserve this fate, tell me that?  Why should it be mine rather than
that of those other women?  Because I am not as good as they are?  If I
am bad, it is because suffering has envenomed me, because injustice has
blackened my soul.  I was born with a disposition as great as
theirs—perhaps greater—to be good and loving and charitable.  My God!
benefits cost little when you’re rich, and kindness is easy when you’re
happy.  If I were in their place, and they in mine, they would hate me
... as I hate them....  We do not love our masters. Ah! this is
horrible—what I am saying to you. I know it, and this is the crowning
bitterness—I feel my own degradation, I blush for it ... and increase
it.  Alas! now you despise me more than ever ... you, whom I could have
loved so much, if you would have let me; you, who could have given me
all that I have lost hope, peace, goodness, self-respect!  Ah! there was
a moment when I believed that I was saved ... when for the first time I
dreamed of happiness, of hope, of pride! ... Poor wretch! ..."

She had seized both my hands; her head fell on them, and she wept wildly
under her long, flowing curls.

"My dear child," I said to her, "I know better than any one the trials
and humiliations of your position, but let me tell you that you increase
them greatly by nourishing the sentiments you have just expressed.  They
are hideous, and you will end by deserving all the hardships of your
lot. But, after all, your imagination strangely exaggerates those
hardships.  As for the present, whatever you may say, you are treated
like a friend here; as to the future, I see nothing to prevent you from
leaving this house on the arm of a happy husband, too.  For my part, I
shall be grateful for your affection throughout my life; but—I will tell
you once more, and finish with the subject forever—I have duties that
bind me, and I do not wish, nor am I able, to marry."

She looked at me suddenly.

"Not even Marguerite?" she said.

"I do not see that it is necessary to introduce Mlle. Marguerite’s
name."

With one hand she threw back the hair which fell over her face, and the
other she held out at me with a menacing gesture.

"You love her!" she said in a hoarse voice. "No, you love her money, but
you shall not have it!"

"Mademoiselle Hélouin!"

"Ah!" she continued, "you must be a child indeed if you think you can
deceive a woman who was fool enough to love you.  I see through your
manoeuvres.  Besides, I know who you are.  I was not far off when Mlle.
de Porhoët conveyed your well-calculated confidence to Mme. Laroque——"

"So you listen at doors, mademoiselle!"

"I care nothing for your insults....  Besides, I shall avenge myself,
and soon, too....  Oh, there’s no doubt you’re very clever, M. de
Chamcey!  I congratulate you.  Wonderfully well have you played your
little part of disinterestedness and reserve, as your friend Laubépin
advised you to do when he sent you here.  He knew the person you would
have to deal with.  He knew well enough this girl’s absurd mania.  And
you think you’ve already got your prey, don’t you? Adorable millions,
aren’t they?  There are queer stories about their origin.  But, at any
rate, they will serve very well to furbish up your marquisate, and
regild your escutcheon.  Well, from this moment you can give up that
idea ... for I swear you shall not keep your mask a day longer, and this
hand shall tear it from you."

"Mlle. Hélouin, it is quite time we brought this scene to an end; we are
verging on melodrama.  You have given me an opportunity of forestalling
you in tale-bearing and calumniation; but you are perfectly safe.  I
give you my word of honour that I shall not use those weapons.  And,
mademoiselle, I am your humble servant."

I left the unhappy girl with a feeling of mingled disgust and pity.  I
have always thought that the highest organization must, from its very
nature, be galled and warped in a situation as equivocal and humiliating
as that which Mlle. Hélouin occupies here.  But I was not prepared for
the abyss of venom that had just opened under my eyes.  Most
assuredly—when one thinks the matter out—one can scarcely conceive a
situation which subjects a human soul to more hateful temptations, or is
better calculated to develop and sharpen envy, to arouse the protests of
pride, and to exasperate feminine vanity and jealousy.  Most of the
unhappy girls who are driven to this occupation only escape the troubles
Mlle. Hélouin had not been able to guard herself against, either by the
moderation of their feeling, or, by the grace of God, through the
firmness of their principles.  Sometimes I had thought that our
misfortunes might make it necessary for my sister to go as governess
into some rich family. I swore then that whatever future might be
reserved for us, I would rather share the hardest life in the poorest
garret with Hélène than let her sit at the poisoned banquets of an
opulent and hateful servitude.

Though I had firmly resolved to leave the field free to Mlle. Hélouin,
and on no account to engage personally in the recriminations of a
degrading contest, I could not regard without misgiving the probable
consequences of the treacherous war just declared against me.
Evidently, I was threatened where I was most sensitive—in my love and in
my honour.  Mistress of the secret of my heart, mingling truth and
falsehood with the skilful perfidy of her sex, Mlle. Hélouin might
easily show my conduct in an unfavourable light, turn all the
precautions and scruples of my delicacy against me, and give my simplest
actions the appearance of deliberate intrigue.  I could not foresee the
form her malevolence would take, but I could depend upon her to choose
the most effectual methods.  Better than any one, she knew the weak
places in the imaginations she wished to impress.  Over Mlle. Marguerite
and her mother she had the advantage which dissimulation usually has
over frankness, and cunning over simplicity.  They trusted her with the
trust that is born of long use and daily association. Her masters, as
she called them, were not likely to suspect that under the pretty
brightness and obsequious consideration which she assumed with such
consummate art she concealed a frenzy of pride and ingratitude which was
eating her miserable heart away.  It was too probable that a hand so
sure and skilful would pour its poison with complete success into hearts
thus prepared.  It was true Mlle. Hélouin might be afraid that by
yielding to her resentment she would thrust Mlle. Marguerite’s hand into
that of M. de Bévallan, and hasten a marriage which would be the ruin of
her own ambition; but I knew that the woman who hates does not
calculate, and risks everything. So I awaited from her the swiftest and
blindest of vengeance, and I was right.

In painful anxiety I passed the hours that should have been given to
sweeter thoughts.  All that a proud spirit finds most galling in
dependence, the suspicion hardest for a loyal conscience, the scorn most
bitter to a loving heart, I endured in anticipation.  Never in my worst
hours had adversity offered me a cup so full.  However, I tried to work
as usual.  About five o’clock I went to the château.  The ladies had
returned during the afternoon.  In the drawing-room I found Mlle.
Marguerite, Mme. Aubry, M. de Bévallan, and two or three casual guests.
Mlle. Marguerite did not appear to be aware of my presence, but
continued to talk to M. de Bévallan in a more animated style than usual.
They were discussing an impromptu dance, which was to take place the
same evening at a neighbouring château.  She was going with her mother,
and urged M. de Bévallan to accompany them.  He excused himself on the
ground that he had left his house that morning before receiving the
invitation, and that his costume was inadmissible.  With an eager and
affectionate coquetry which evidently surprised even him, Mlle.
Marguerite persisted, saying that there was still time to go back and
dress and return to fetch them.  She promised that a nice little dinner
should be kept for him.  M. de Bévallan said that his carriage horses
were not available, and that he could not ride back in evening dress.

"Very well," replied Mlle. Marguerite; "they shall drive you over in the
dog-cart."

At the same moment she turned towards me for the first time, with a look
in which I saw the thunderbolt that was about to fall.

"M. Odiot," she said in a sharp, imperious tone, "go and tell them to
put the horse in."

This imperious order was so little in harmony with such as I was
accustomed to receive here, or such as I could be expected to tolerate,
that the attention and curiosity of the most indifferent were excited.

There was an awkward silence.  M. de Bévallan glanced in surprise at
Mlle. Marguerite; then he looked at me, and got up with a very serious
air.  If they thought I should give way to some mad prompting of anger
they were mistaken.  It was true that the insulting words which had just
fallen on me from a mouth so beautiful, so beloved, and so cruel, had
struck the icy coldness of death to the very depths of my being.  A
blade of steel piercing my heart could hardly have caused me keener
pain.  But never had I been calmer. The bell which Mme. Laroque uses to
summon her servants stood on a table within my reach.  I touched it with
my finger.  A man-servant entered almost directly.

"I think," I said to him, "Mlle. Marguerite has some orders to give
you."

At this speech, which she had heard in amazement, Marguerite shook her
head quickly, and dismissed the man.  I longed to get out of this room,
where I seemed to be choking, but, in view of M. de Bévallan’s provoking
manner, I could not withdraw.

"Upon my word," he murmured, "there’s something very strange about all
this."

I took no notice of him.  Mlle. Marguerite said something to him under
her breath.

"I obey, mademoiselle," he said in a louder tone; "but you will allow me
to express my sincere regret that I have not the right to interpose
here."

I rose immediately.

"M. de Bévallan," I said, standing within a pace or two of him, "that
regret is quite superfluous, for though I have not thought fit to obey
Mlle. Laroque’s orders, I am entirely at yours ... and I shall expect to
receive them."

"Very good, very good, sir; nothing could be better," replied M. de
Bévallan, waving his hand airily to reassure the ladies.

We bowed to one another and I went out.  I dined alone in my tower.
Poor Alain waited on me as usual.  No doubt he had heard of what had
occurred, for he kept looking at me mournfully, sighed often and deeply,
and, contrary to his custom, preserved a gloomy silence, only breaking
it to reply, in answer to my question, that the ladies had decided not
to go to the ball.

After a hurried meal, I put my papers in order and wrote a few words to
M. Laubépin.  In view of a possible contingency I recommended Hélène to
his care.  The thought that I might leave her unprotected and friendless
nearly broke my heart, without in the least affecting my immovable
principles.  I may deceive myself, but I have always thought that honour
in our modern life is paramount in the hierarchy of duties.  It takes
the place of so many virtues which have nearly faded from our
consciences, of so many dormant beliefs; it plays such a tutelary part
in the present state of society, that I would never consent to weaken
its claims, or lessen its obligations.  In its indefinite character,
there is something superior to law and morality: one does not reason
about it; one feels it.  It is a religion.  If we have no longer the
folly of the Cross, let us keep the folly of Honour!  Moreover, no
sentiment has ever taken such deep root in the human soul without the
sanction of reason.  It is better that a girl or a wife should be alone
in the world, than that she should be protected by a dishonoured brother
or husband.

Each moment I expected a letter from M. de Bévallan.  I was getting
ready to go to the collector of taxes in the town, a young officer who
had been wounded in the Crimea, and ask him to be my second, when some
one knocked at my door.  M. de Bévallan himself came in.  Apart from a
slight shade of embarrassment, his face expressed nothing but a frank
and joyful kindliness.

"M. Odiot," he said, as I looked at him in surprise, "this is rather an
unusual step, but, thank Heaven, my service-records place my courage
beyond suspicion.  On the other hand, I have such good reason for
feeling happy to-night that I have no room for rancour or enmity.
Lastly, I am obeying orders which will now be more sacred to me than
ever.  In short, I come to offer you my hand."

I bowed gravely and took his hand.

"Now," he went on as he sat down, "I can execute my commission
comfortably.  A little while ago Mlle. Marguerite, in a thoughtless
moment, gave you some instructions which most assuredly did not come
within your province. Very properly, your susceptibility was aroused, we
quite recognise that, and now the ladies charge me to beg that you will
accept their regrets.  They would be in despair if the misconception of
a moment could deprive them of your good offices, which they value
extremely, and put an end to relations which they esteem most highly.
Speaking for myself, I have this evening acquired the right to add my
entreaties to those of the ladies.  Something I have long desired has
been granted me, and I shall be personally indebted to you if you will
prevent the happy memories of this day from being marred by a separation
which would be at once disadvantageous and painful to the family into
which I shall shortly enter."

"M. de Bévallan," I said, "I fully recognise and appreciate all that you
have said on behalf of the ladies, as well as on your own account.  You
will excuse me from giving a final answer immediately.  This is a matter
which requires more judicial consideration than I can give it at
present.

"At least," said M. de Bévallan, "you will let me take back a hopeful
report.  Come, M. Odiot, since we have the opportunity, let us break
through the barrier of ice that has kept us apart till now.  As far as I
am concerned, I am quite willing.  In the first place, Mme. Laroque,
without revealing a secret that does not belong to her, has given me to
understand that under the kind of mystery with which you surround
yourself, there are circumstances which reflect the highest credit on
you.  And, besides, I have a private reason for being grateful to you.
I know that you have lately been consulted in reference to my intentions
towards Mlle. Laroque, and that I have cause to congratulate myself on
your opinion."

"My dear sir, I do not think I deserve——"

"Oh, I know!" he continued, laughing.  "You didn’t praise me up to the
skies, but, at all events, you did me no harm.  And I admit that you
showed real insight.  You said that though Mlle. Marguerite might not be
absolutely happy with me, she would not be unhappy.  Well, the prophet
Daniel could not have spoken better.  The truth is, the dear child will
never be absolutely happy with any one, because she will not find in the
whole world a husband who will talk poetry to her from morning to
night....  They’re not to be had.  I am no more capable of it than any
one else, I own; but—as you were good enough to say—I am an honourable
man.  And really, when we know one another better, you will be convinced
of it.  I am not a brute; I am a good fellow.  God knows I have faults
... one especially: I am fond of pretty women....  I am, I can’t deny
it.  But what does it matter?  It shows that one has a good heart.
Besides, here I am in port ... and I am delighted, because—between
ourselves—I was getting into a bit of a mess.  In short, I mean only to
think about my wife and children in future.  So, like you, I believe
Marguerite will be perfectly happy—that is to say, as far as she could
be in this world with ideas like hers.  For, after all, I shall be good
to her; I shall refuse her nothing, and I shall do even more than she
desires.  But if she asks me for the moon and the stars, I can’t go and
fetch them to please her ... that’s not possible.... And now, my dear
friend, your hand once more."

I gave it him.  He got up.

"Good!  I hope that you will stay with us now....  Come, let me see that
a brighter face!  We will make your life as pleasant as possible, but
you’ll have to help us a bit, you know. You cultivate your sadness, I
fancy.  You live, if I may say so, too much like an owl.  You’re a kind
of Spaniard such as one rarely sees.  You must drop that sort of thing.
You are young and good-looking, you have wit and talents; make the best
of those qualities.  Listen.  Why not try a flirtation with little
Hélouin....  It would amuse you.  She is very charming, and she would
suit you.  But, deuce take me!  I am rather forgetting my promotion to
high dignities! ... And now, good-bye, Maxime, till to-morrow, isn’t
it?"

"Till to-morrow, certainly."

And this honest gentleman—who is the sort of Spaniard one often
sees!—left me to my reflections.


                                                          _October 1st_.

A strange thing has happened.  Though the results are not, so far, very
satisfactory, they have done me good.  The blow I had received had left
me numb with grief.  This at least makes me feel that I am alive, and
for the first time for three long weeks I have had the courage to open
this book and take up my pen.  Every satisfaction having been given to
me, I thought there was no longer any reason for leaving, at least
suddenly, a position and advantages which, after all, I need, and could
not easily replace.  The mere prospect of the personal sufferings I had
to face, which, moreover, were the result of my own weakness, could not
entitle me to shirk duties which involved other interests than my own.
And more; I did not intend that Mlle. Marguerite should interpret my
sudden flight as the result of pique at the loss of a good match.  I
made it a point of honour to show her an unruffled front up to the altar
itself.  As for my heart—that she could not see.  So I contented myself
with informing M. Laubépin that certain things incident to my situation
might at any moment become unbearable, and that I eagerly desired some
less lucrative but more independent occupation.

The next day I appeared at the château, where M. de Bévallan received me
cordially.  I greeted the ladies with all the self-possession I could
command.  There was, of course, no explanation. Mme. Laroque seemed
moved and thoughtful; Mlle. Marguerite was a little highly strung still,
but polite.  As for Mlle. Hélouin, she was very pale, and kept her eyes
fixed on her work.  The poor girl could not have been very much
delighted with the final result of her diplomacy.  She endeavoured once
or twice to dart a look of scorn and menace at M. de Bévallan; but
though this stormy atmosphere might have troubled a neophyte, M. de
Bévallan breathed, moved, and fluttered about in it entirely at his
ease.  His regal self-possession evidently irritated Mlle. Hélouin, but
it quelled her at the same time.  I am sure, however, that she would
have played him the same sort of trick she had played me the day before,
and with far more excuse, if she had not been afraid of ruining herself
as well as her accomplice. But it was most likely that if she yielded to
her jealous rage, and admitted her ingratitude and duplicity, she would
ruin herself only, and she was quite clever enough to see this.  In
fact, M. de Bévallan was not the kind of man to have run any risks with
her, without having provided himself with some very effective weapon
which he would use with pitiless indifference.  Of course, Mlle. Hélouin
might tell herself that the night before they had believed her when she
made other false accusations, but she knew that the falsehood which
flatters or wounds is much more readily believed than mere general
truth.  So she suffered in silence, not, I suppose, without feeling
keenly that the sword of treachery sometimes turns against the person
who makes use of it.  During this day and those which followed I had to
bear a kind of torture I had foreseen, though without realizing how
painful it would be.  The marriage was fixed for a month later.  All the
preparations had to be made at once and in great haste. Regularly each
morning came one of Mme. Provost’s bouquets.  Laces, dresses, jewels
poured in and were exhibited every evening to interested and envious
ladies.  I had to give my opinion and my advice on everything.  Mlle.
Marguerite begged for them with almost cruel persistence.  I responded
as graciously as I could, and then returned to my tower and took from a
secret drawer the tattered handkerchief I had won at the risk of my
life, and I dried my tears with it. Weakness again!  But what would you
have? I love her.  Treachery, enmity, hopeless misunderstandings, her
pride and mine, separate us forever!  So let it be, but nothing can
prevent me from living and dying with my heart full of her.

As for M. de Bévallan, I did not hate him; he was not worthy of it.  He
is a vulgar but harmless soul.  Thank God!  I could receive the
overtures of his shallow friendliness without hypocrisy, and put my hand
tranquilly in his.  But if he was too insignificant for my resentment,
that did not lessen the deep and lacerating agony with which I
recognised his unworthiness of the rare creature he would soon
possess—and never know.  I cannot, and I dare not, describe the flood of
bitter thoughts, of nameless sensations which have been aroused in me at
the thought of this odious _mésalliance_, and have not yet subsided.
Love, real true love, has something sacred in it, which gives an almost
superhuman character to its pain as to its joy.

To the man who loves her, a woman has a sort of divinity of which no
other man knows the secret, which belongs only to her lover, and to see
even the threshold of this mystery profaned by another gives us a
strange and indescribable shock—a horror, as of sacrilege.  It is not
merely that a precious possession is taken from you; it is an altar
polluted, a mystery violated, a god defiled! This is jealousy.  At
least, it is mine.  In all sincerity it seemed to me that in the whole
world I only had eyes to see, intelligence to understand, and a heart to
worship in its full perfection the beauty of this angel.  With any other
she would be cast away, and lost; body and soul, she was destined for me
from all eternity.  So vast was my pride!  I expiated it with suffering
as immeasurable.

Nevertheless, some mocking demon whispered that in all probability
Marguerite would find more peace and real happiness in the kindly
friendship of a judicious husband, than she would have enjoyed in the
poetic passion of a romantic lover. Is it true?  Is it possible?  I do
not believe it. She will have peace!  Granted.  But peace, after all, is
not the best thing in life, nor the highest kind of happiness.  If
insensibility and a petrified heart sufficed to make us happy, too many
people who do not deserve it would be happy.  By dint of reasoning and
calculation we come to blaspheme against God, and to degrade his work.
God gives peace to the dead; to the living he gives passion!  Yes, in
addition to the vulgar interests of daily life, which I am not so
foolish as to expect to set aside, a certain poetry is permitted, nay,
enjoined.  That is the heritage of the immortal soul.  And this soul
must feel, and sometimes reveal itself, whether by visions that
transcend the real, by aspirations that out-soar the possible, by
storms, or by tears.  Yes, there is suffering which is better than
happiness, or, rather, which is itself happiness—that of a living
creature who knows all the agonies of the heart, and all the illusions
of the mind, and who accepts these noble torments with an equable mind
and a fraternal heart.  That is the romance which every one who claims
to be a man, and to justify that claim, may, and indeed is bound to put
into his life.

And, after all, this boasted peace will not be hers.  The marriage of
two stolid hearts, of two frozen imaginations, may produce the calm of
lifelessness.  I can believe that, but the union of life with death
cannot be endured without a horrible oppression and ceaseless anguish.

In the midst of these personal miseries, which increased each day in
intensity, my only refuge was my poor old friend, Mlle. de Porhoët.  She
did not know, or pretended not to know, the state of my heart; but with
her remote and perhaps involuntary allusions she touched my bleeding
wounds with a woman’s light and delicate hand.  And this soul, the
living symbol of sacrifice and resignation, which seemed already to
float above our earth, had a detachment, a calmness, and a gentle
firmness, which seemed to descend on me.  I came to understand her
innocent delusion, and to share it with something of the same
simplicity.  Bent over the album, I wandered with her for hours through
the cloisters of her cathedral, and breathed for a while the vague
perfumes of an ideal serenity.

I further found at the old lady’s house another kind of distraction.
Habit gives an interest to every kind of work.  To prevent Mlle. de
Porhoët from suspecting the final loss of her case, I regularly
continued the exploration of the family archives.  Among the confused
mass I occasionally came across traditions, legends, and traces of
old-world customs which awakened my curiosity and carried back my
thoughts to far-off days remote from the crushing reality of life.  My
perseverance maintained Mlle. de Porhoët in her illusions, and she was
grateful to me beyond my deserts.  For I had come to take an interest in
this work—-now practically useless—which repaid me for all my trouble,
and gave me a wholesome distraction from my grief.

As the fateful day approached, Mlle. Marguerite lost the feverish
vivacity which had seemed to inspire her since the date of the marriage
had been fixed, and relapsed at times into the fits of indolence and
sombre reverie formerly habitual to her.  Once or twice I surprised her
watching me in wondering perplexity.  Mme. Laroque, too, often looked at
me with an anxious and hesitating air, as if she wished and yet feared
to discuss some painful subject with me. The day before yesterday I
found myself by chance alone with her in the _salon_, which Mlle.
Hélouin had just left to give some order.  The trivial conversation in
which we had been engaged ceased suddenly, as by common consent. After a
short silence, Mme. Laroque said, in a voice full of emotion:

"M. Odiot, you are not wise in your choice of confidants."

"Confidants, madame?  I do not follow you. Except Mlle. de Porhoët, I
have had no confidant in this place."

"Alas!" she replied, "I wish to believe you ... I _do_ believe you ...
but that is not enough——"

At this moment Mlle. Hélouin came in, and no more could be said.

The day after—yesterday—I had ridden over in the morning to superintend
some wood-cutting in the neighbourhood.  I was returning to the château
about four in the afternoon, when, at a sharp turn of the road, I found
myself face to face with Mlle. Marguerite.  She was alone.  I prepared
to pass her with a bow, but she stopped her horse.

"What a fine autumn day!" she said.

"Yes, mademoiselle.  You are going for a ride?"

"As you see.  I am making the best of my moments of independence, and,
in fact, I have been rather abusing my liberty, for I am somewhat tired
of solitude.  But Alain is wanted at the house....  Poor Mervyn is
lame.... You would not care to take his place?"

"With pleasure.  Where are you going?"

"Well ... I thought of riding as far as the tower of Elven."

With her whip she indicated the misty summit of a hill which rose on the
right of the road.

"I think," she went on, "you’ve never made that pilgrimage?"

"I have not.  I have often meant to, but until now I have always put it
off.  I don’t know why."

"Well, that is fortunate; but it is getting late; we must make haste, if
you don’t mind."

I turned my horse and we set off at a gallop.

As we rode along, I tried to account for this unexpected fancy which had
an air of premeditation. I imagined that time and reflection had
weakened the first impression that calumnies had made on Mlle.
Marguerite.  Apparently, she had conceived some doubts of Mlle.
Hélouin’s veracity, and had seized an opportunity to make, in an
indirect way, a reparation which might be due to me.  My mind full of
such preoccupations, I gave little thought to the particular object of
this strange ride.  Still, I had often heard the tower of Elven
described as one of the most interesting ruins of the country.  I had
never gone along either of the roads—from Rennes or from Josselin—which
lead to the sea, without looking longingly at the confused mass rearing
up suddenly among the distant heaths like some huge stone on end.  But I
had had neither time nor opportunity to examine it.

Slackening our pace, we passed through the village of Elven, which
preserves to a remarkable extent the character of a mediæval hamlet.
The form of the low, dark houses has not changed for five or six
centuries.  You think you are dreaming, when, looking into the big
arched bays which serve as windows, you see the groups of mild-eyed
women in sculpturesque costume plying their distaffs in the shade, and
talking in low tones an unknown tongue.  These gray spectral figures
seem to have just left their tombs to repeat some scene of a bygone age,
of which you are the only witness.  It gives a sense of oppression. The
sluggish life that stirs around you in the single street of the village
has the same stamp of archaic strangeness transmitted from a vanished
world.

A little way from Elven we took a cross-road that brought us to the top
of a bare hillock. Thence, though still some distance off, we could
plainly see the feudal colossus crowning a wooded height in front of us.
The _lande_ we were on sloped steeply to some marshy meadows inclosed by
thickets.

We descended the farther side and soon entered the woods.  Then we
struck a narrow causeway, the rugged pavement of which must once have
rung to the hoofs of mail-clad horses.  For some time I had lost sight
of the tower of Elven, and could not even guess where it was, when all
at once it stood out like an apparition from among the foliage a few
paces in front of us.  The tower is not a ruin; it preserves its
original height of more than a hundred feet, and the irregular courses
of granite which make up its splendid octagonal mass give it the
appearance of a huge block cut out but yesterday by some skilful chisel.
It would be difficult to imagine anything more proud, sombre, and
imposing than this old donjon, impassible to the course of ages, and
lost in the depths of the forest.  Full-grown trees have sprung up in
the deep moats which surround it, and their tops scarcely touch the
openings of the lowest windows.  This gigantic vegetation, which
entirely conceals the base of the edifice, completes its air of
fantastic mystery.  In this solitude, among these forests, before this
mass of weird architecture, which seems to start up suddenly out of the
earth, one thinks involuntarily of those enchanted castles in which
beautiful princesses slept for centuries awaiting a deliverer.

"So far," said Mlle. Marguerite, to whom I had endeavoured to convey
these impressions, "this is all I have seen of it, but if you want to
wake the princess, we can go in.  I believe there is always somewhere
near a shepherd or shepherdess who has the key.  Let us tie up the
horses and search, you for the shepherd, and I for the shepherdess."

We put the horses into a small inclosure near and separated for a little
while, but found neither shepherd nor shepherdess.  Of course this
increased our desire to visit the tower.  Crossing a bridge over the
moat, we found to our great surprise that the heavy door was not closed.
We pushed it and entered a dark and narrow space choked with rubbish,
which may have been the guard-room.  We passed thence into a large,
almost circular hall, where an escutcheon in the chimneypiece still
displayed the bezants of a crusader.  A large window faced us, divided
by the symbolic cross clearly carved in stone.  It lighted all the lower
part of the room, leaving the vaulted and ruined ceiling in shadow.  At
the sound of our steps a flock of birds whirled off, sending the dust of
ages on to our heads.

By standing on the granite benches, which ran like steps along the side
of the walls, in the embrasure of the window, we could see the moat
outside and the ruined parts of the fortress.  But as we came in we had
noticed a staircase cut out of the solid wall, and we were childishly
eager to extend our discoveries.  We began the ascent, I leading, and
Mlle. Marguerite following bravely, and managing her long skirts as best
she could. The view from the platform at the top is vast and exquisite.
The soft hues of twilight tinged the ocean of half-golden autumnal
foliage, the gloomy marshes, the fresh pastures, and the distant
horizons of intersecting slopes, which mingled and succeeded each other
in endless perspective. Gazing on this gracious landscape, in its
infinite melancholy, the peace of solitude, the silence of evening, the
poetry of ancient days fell like some potent spell upon our hearts and
spirits.  This hour of common contemplation and emotions of purest,
deepest pleasure, no doubt the last I should spend with her, I entered
into with an almost painful violence of enjoyment.  I do not know what
Marguerite was feeling; she had sat down on the ledge of the parapet,
and was gazing into the distance in silence.

I cannot say how many moments passed in this way.  When the mists
gathered in the lower meadows, and the distant landscape began to fade
into the growing darkness, Marguerite rose.

"Come," she said in a low voice, as if the curtain had fallen on some
beautiful spectacle; "come; it’s over."

She began to descend the stairs, and I followed her.

But when we tried to get out of the donjon, to our great surprise we
found the door closed.  Most likely the doorkeeper, not knowing that we
were there, had locked it while we were on the platform.  At first this
amused us.  The tower was really an enchanted tower.  I made some
vigorous efforts to break the spell, but the huge bolt of the old lock
was firmly fixed in its granite socket, and I had to give up all hope of
moving it.  I attacked the door itself, but the massive hinges and the
oak panels studded with iron stolidly resisted all my efforts.  Some
stone mullions, which I found among the rubbish and hurled against the
door, only shook the vault and brought some fragments from it to our
feet. Mlle. Marguerite at last made me give up a task that was hopeless,
and not without danger.  I then ran to the window and shouted, but no
one replied.  For ten minutes I continued shouting, and to no purpose.
We took advantage of the last rays of light to explore the interior of
the donjon very carefully.  But the door, which was as good as walled up
for us, and the large window, thirty feet above the moat, were the only
exits we could discover.

Meanwhile, night had fallen on the fields, and the shadows deepened in
the old tower.  The moonbeams shone in through the window, streaking the
steps with oblique white lines.  Mlle. Marguerite’s gaiety had gradually
died away, and she had even ceased to answer the more or less probable
conjectures with which I still tried to calm her apprehensions.  While
she kept silent and immovable in the shadow, I sat in the full light on
the step nearest the window, still shouting at intervals for help; but,
to speak the truth, the more uncertain the success of my attempts
became, the more I was conscious of a feeling of irresistible
joyfulness.  For suddenly I saw the eternal and impossible dream of
lovers realized for me; I was shut in the heart of a desert and in the
most complete solitude with the woman I loved.  For long hours there
would be but she and I in the world, but her life and mine.  I thought
of all the sweet evidences of protection and of tender respect it would
be my right and my duty to show her.  I imagined her fears at rest, her
confidence restored, finally her slumbers guarded by me.  I told myself,
in rapture, that this auspicious night, though it could not give me her
love, would at least insure me her unalterable respect.

As I yielded, with the egotism of passion, to my secret ecstasy, some
trace of which, perhaps, expressed itself in my face, I was suddenly
awakened by these words, spoken in a dull tone, and with affected calm:

"M. le Marquis de Champcey, have there been many cowards in your family
before you?"

I rose, and immediately fell back again on the stone bench, looking
stupidly into the darkness, where I saw dimly the ghostly figure of the
young girl.  Only one idea occurred to me—a terrible idea—that grief and
fear had affected her reason—that she was going mad.

"Marguerite!" I cried, without knowing that I spoke.

The word no doubt put a climax to her irritation.

"My God, this is hateful!" she continued. "It is cowardly.  I repeat, it
is cowardly."

I began to see the truth.  I descended one of the steps.

"What is the matter?" I said coldly.

She replied with abrupt vehemence: "You paid that man or child,
whichever it was, to shut us up in this wretched tower.  To-morrow I
shall be ruined ... my reputation lost ... then I shall have perforce to
belong to you.  That was your calculation, wasn’t it?  But, I warn you,
it will not serve you any better than the rest.  You still know me very
little if you think I would not prefer dishonour, the convent, death,
anything, to the vileness of yielding my hand—my life—to yours.  And
suppose this infamous trick had succeeded, suppose I had been weak
enough—which of a surety I never shall be—to yield myself, and what you
covet more, my fortune to you, what kind of a man can you be?  What mud
are you made of, to desire wealth and a wife by such means?  Ah! you may
thank me for not yielding to your wishes.  They are imprudent, believe
me; for if ever shame and public ridicule drove me to your arms, I have
such a contempt for you that I would break your heart.  Yes, were it as
hard and cold as these stones, I would press blood and tears from it!"

"Mademoiselle," I said, with all the calm I could command, "I beg you to
return to yourself, to your senses.  On my honour I assure you that you
do me injustice.  Think for a moment. Your suspicions are quite absurd.
In no possible way could I have accomplished the treachery of which you
accuse me; and even if I could have done so, when have I ever given you
the right to think me capable of it?"

"Everything I know of you gives me this right!" she cried, lashing the
air with her whip. "I will tell you once for all what has been in my
thoughts for a long time.  Why did you come into our house under a false
name, in a false character?  My mother and I were happy and at peace.
You have brought trouble, anxiety, and sorrow upon us.  To attain your
object, to restore your fallen fortunes, you usurped our confidence ...
you destroyed our peace ... you have played with our purest, deepest,
and holiest feelings ... you have bruised and shattered our hearts
without pity.  That is what you have done or tried to do, it doesn’t
matter which.  Well, I am utterly weary of, utterly disgusted with, all
this.  I tell you plainly.  And when now you offer to pledge your honour
as a gentleman, the honour that has already allowed you to do so many
unworthy things, certainly I have the right not to believe in it—I do
not believe in it."

I lost all control of myself.  I seized her hands in a transport of
violence which daunted her.  "Marguerite, my poor child, listen.  I love
you, it is true, and a love more passionate, more disinterested, more
holy, never possessed the heart of man.  But you—you love me too!
Unhappy girl, you love me and you are killing me.  You talk of a bruised
and a broken heart.  What have you done to mine?  But it is yours.  I
give it up to you.  As for my honour, I keep it ... it is intact, and
before long I shall compel you to acknowledge this.  And on that honour
I swear that if I die, you will weep for me; that if I live—worshipped
though you are—never, never, were you on your knees before me, would I
marry you unless you were as poor as I, or I as rich as you.  And now
pray! pray!  Ask God for a miracle; it is time!"

Then I pushed her roughly far from the embrasure, and sprang on to the
highest step.  A desperate idea had come to me.  I carried it out with
the precipitation of positive madness. As I have said, the tops of the
beeches and oaks that grew in the moat were on the level of the window.
With my bent whip I drew the ends of the nearest branches to me, seized
them at random, and let myself drop into the void.  I heard my
name—"Maxime!"—uttered with a wild cry above my head.  The branches I
held bent their full length towards the abyss; there was an ominous
crack, and they broke under my weight.  I fell heavily on the ground.
The muddy nature of the soil must have deadened the shock, for I felt
that I was alive, though a good deal hurt.  One of my arms had struck
the stonework of the moat, and I was in such pain that I fainted.
Marguerite’s despairing voice recalled me to myself.

"Maxime!  Maxime!" she cried, "for pity’s sake, for God’s sake, speak to
me!  Forgive me!"

I got up and saw her in the bay of the window, standing in an aureole of
pale light, her head bare, her hair loose, her hands grasping the bar of
the cross, while her glowing eyes searched the dark abyss.

"Don’t be alarmed," I said; "I’m not hurt. Only be patient for an hour
or two.  Give me time to get to the château—that is the best place to
go.  You may be sure I shall keep your secret and save your honour, as I
have just saved my own."

I scrambled painfully out of the moat and went to look for my horse.  I
used my handkerchief as a sling for my left arm, which was quite
disabled and gave me great pain.  The night was clear and I found the
way easily.  An hour later I was at the château.  They told me that Dr.
Desmarets was in the drawing-room.  I hurried there and found him and a
dozen others, all looking anxious and alarmed.

"Doctor," I said lightly as I came in, "my horse shied at his own shadow
and came down in the road.  I think my left arm is put out.  Will you
see?"

"Eh, what?—put out?" said M. Desmarets, after he had removed the
handkerchief.  "Your arm’s broken, my poor boy."

Mme. Laroque started up with a little scream and came towards me.

"It seems we are to have an evening of misfortunes," she said.

"What else has happened?" I asked, as if surprised.

"I am afraid my daughter must have had an accident.  She went out on
horseback about three; it is now eight, and she has not returned!"

"Mlle. Marguerite?  Why, I met her..."

"Met her?  When?  Where?  Forgive a mother’s selfishness, M. Odiot."

"Oh, I met her on the road, about five.  She told me she thought of
going as far as the tower of Elven."

"The tower of Elven!  She has lost her way in the woods.  We must send
at once and search."

M. de Bévallan ordered horses to be got ready immediately.  At first I
pretended that I meant to be of the party, but Mme. Laroque and the
doctor would not hear of it.  Without much trouble I was persuaded to
take to my bed, which, truth to tell, I needed badly.  M. Desmarets
attended to my arm, and then drove away with Mme. Laroque, who was to
await the result of the search inaugurated by M. de Bévallan at the
village of Elven.

About ten o’clock Alain came to tell me that Mlle. Marguerite had been
found.  He related the story of her imprisonment without omitting any
details, except, of course, those known only to me and the young girl.
The news was soon confirmed by the doctor, and afterwards by Mme.
Laroque, and I had the satisfaction of seeing that no one suspected what
had actually occurred.

I passed the night in repeating the dangerous leap from the window of
the donjon with all the grotesque complications of fever and delirium.
I did not get used to it.  Every moment the sensation of falling through
emptiness caught me by the throat, and I awoke breathless.  At last day
came, and I got calm.  At eight o’clock Mlle. de Porhoët came in and
took her place at my bedside with her knitting in her hand.  She did the
honours of my room to the visitors who followed one another throughout
the day.  Mme. Laroque was the first after my old friend.  As she held
my hand and pressed it earnestly I saw tears on her face.  Has her
daughter confided in her?

Mlle. de Porhoët told me that old M. Laroque had been confined to his
bed since yesterday. He had a slight attack of paralysis.  To-day he
cannot speak, and they are much alarmed about him.  The marriage is to
be hastened. M. Laubépin has been sent for from Paris; he is expected
to-morrow, and the contract will be signed the following day, under his
direction.

I have been able to sit up for some hours this evening, but, according
to M. Desmarets, I should not have written while the fever was on me,
and I am a great idiot.


                                                           _October 3d_.

Really it seems as if some malign power were hard at work devising the
strangest and most cruel tests for my conscience and heart alternately.

M. Laubépin not having arrived this morning, Mme. Laroque has asked me
to give her some of the information necessary for drawing up the general
conditions of the contract, which is to be signed to-morrow.  As I am
obliged to keep my room for some days yet, I asked Mme. Laroque to send
me the title-deeds and private documents in her father-in-law’s
possession, as they were indispensable for the clearing up of the points
she had mentioned to me.

Very soon they brought me two or three drawers full of papers which they
had taken out of M. Laroque’s cabinet while he was asleep, for the old
gentleman would never let any one touch his secret archives.  On the
first paper that I took up I saw my family name repeated several times.
My curiosity was irresistibly aroused.  Here is the literal text of the
document:


                             To MY CHILDREN

The name I bequeath to you, and which I have honoured, is not mine.  My
father’s name was Savage.  He was overseer of a large plantation in the
Island of St. Lucia (then French), which belonged to a rich and noble
family of Dauphiné—the Champcey d’Hauterives.  In 1793 my father died,
and, though I was quite young, I succeeded to the trust the Champceys
reposed in him.  Towards the end of that disastrous year the French
Antilles were taken by the English or given up to them by the rebel
colonists.  The Marquis of Champcey d’Hauterive (Jacques-Auguste), whom
the orders of the Convention had not yet struck down, then commanded the
_Thetis_ frigate, which had been cruising on this coast for three years.
A good number of the French colonists of the Antilles had succeeded in
realizing their fortunes, which had been in imminent peril. They had
arranged with the Commandant de Champcey to get together a fleet of
light transports, to which their property had been transferred, and
which was to sail for France under the protection of the guns of the
_Thetis_.  In view of imminent disasters, I had myself received, a long
time back, an order and authority to sell the plantation at any price.
On the night of November 14, 1793, I put out alone in a boat for the
Point of Morne-au-Sable and secretly left St. Lucia, already occupied by
the enemy.  I brought with me in English notes and guineas the amount I
had received for the plantation.  M. de Champcey, thanks to his intimate
knowledge of the coast, had slipped past the English cruiser and had
taken refuge in the dangerous and unknown channel of Gros-Ilet.  He had
instructed me to join him there this night, and only awaited my arrival
to leave the channel with his convoy and make for France.  In crossing,
I fell into the hands of the English.  These experts in treason gave me
the choice of being shot on the spot or of selling them, for the million
I had with me, which they agreed to leave in my hands, the secret of the
channel where the fleet was hiding. I was young ... the temptation was
too great. Half an hour later the _Thetis_ was sunk, the convoy taken,
and M. de Champcey seriously wounded. A year passed—a year without
sleep....  I was going mad....  I determined to make the cursed English
pay for the remorse I suffered. I went to Guadeloupe; I changed my name;
I devoted the larger part of the money I had received to the purchase of
an armed brig, and I fell upon the English.  For fifteen years I washed
in their blood and my own the stain that in an hour of weakness I had
brought on my country’s flag.  Though three parts of my fortune have
been acquired in honourable combats, its origin was, nevertheless, the
price of my treachery.

Returning to France in my old age, I ascertained the position of the
Champcey d’Hauterives, and found that they were happy and wealthy.  I
kept my own counsel.  I ask my children to forgive me.  While I lived I
had not the courage to blush before them.  My death will reveal this
secret to them.  They must use it as their consciences may direct.  For
myself I have only one prayer to address to them.  Soon or late there
will be a final war between France and her neighbour.  We hate one
another too much; there’s nothing else to be done; either we must devour
them or they must devour us.  If this war should be declared during the
life of my children or grand-children, I desire that they give to the
state a corvette fully armed and completely equipped, on one condition,
that it shall be called the Savage, and be commanded by a Breton.  At
each broadside she shall send on to the Carthaginian shore my bones will
tremble with joy in my grave.


RICHARD SAVAGE, called LAROQUE.


The memories that this terrible confession awakened convinced me that it
was correct. Twenty times I had heard my father relate with pride and
indignation this incident in my ancestor’s career.  But in the family we
believed that Richard Savage—I remember the name quite well—had been the
victim, and not the contriver of the treason or mischance which had
betrayed the commandant of the _Thetis_.  Now I understand the
peculiarities I had often noticed in the old sailor’s character, and
especially his thoughtful and timid bearing towards me.  My father had
always told me that I was the living portrait of my grandfather, the
Marquis Jacques, and perhaps some dim perception of this resemblance had
penetrated to the old man’s troubled brain.

This revelation threw me into a terrible perplexity. I felt but little
resentment against the unhappy man who had redeemed a moment of weakness
by a long life of repentance, and by a passion of desperation and hatred
which was not without greatness.  Nor could I, without admiration,
breathe the wild blast which animated the lines written by this guilty
but heroic hand.  Still, what was I to do with this terrible secret?  My
first thought was that it removed all obstacles between Marguerite and
me; that henceforth the fortune that had kept us apart would be almost
an obligatory bond, for I was the only person in the world who could
regularize her title to it by sharing it with her.  But in truth this
secret did not belong to me, and though I had learned it by the purest
of accidents, strict honesty, perhaps, demanded that I should leave it
to come at its own time into the hands for which it was destined. But
while I waited for that moment the irreparable would be accomplished.
Eternal bonds were to be forged.  The tomb was to close over my love, my
hopes, and my sorrowful heart.  And should I allow it when I might
prevent it by a single word?  And the day these poor women learned the
truth, and blushed with shame to learn it, perhaps they would share my
regret and despair.  They would be the first to cry:

"Ah! if you knew, why did you not speak?"

No, neither to-day nor to-morrow, nor ever, shall those noble women
blush for shame if I can prevent it.  My happiness shall not be bought
at the price of their humiliation.  This secret is mine alone.  The old
man, henceforth speechless, cannot betray himself.  The secret does not
exist; the flames have destroyed it.  I pondered it well. I know what I
have dared to do.  It was a will, a sacred document, and I have
destroyed it.  Moreover, it did not benefit me alone.  My sister, who is
intrusted to my care, might have found a fortune there, and, without
consulting her, I have plunged her back into poverty.  I know all that,
but I will not allow two pure proud souls to be crushed and dishonoured
by the burden of a crime of which they are ignorant.  There is a
principle of equity at stake far superior to mere literal justice.  If,
in my turn, I have committed a crime, I will answer for it.  But the
struggle has exhausted me.  I can do no more now.


                                                          _October 4th_.

M. Laubépin, after all, arrived yesterday.  He came to see me.  He was
brusque, preoccupied, and seemed ill-pleased.  He spoke briefly of the
marriage.

"A very satisfactory business!" he said; "in all respects an excellent
combination, where nature and society both receive the guarantees they
have the right to require in such matters.  And so, young man,
good-night.  I have to smooth the delicate ground of the preliminary
agreements, that the hymeneal car of this interesting union may reach
its goal without jolting."

At one o’clock this afternoon the family assembled in the drawing-room
with all the preparations and formalities observed at the signing of a
marriage contract.  I could not attend this ceremony, and I blessed my
broken arm for sparing me the trial.  About three I was writing to
little Hélène, and taking care to assure her more strongly than ever of
my complete devotion to her, when M. Laubépin and Mlle. de Porhoët came
into my room.  In his frequent visits to Laroque, M. Laubépin has learnt
to appreciate my venerable friend, and the two old people have formed a
respectful and Platonic attachment, which Dr. Desmarets tries in vain to
misrepresent. After an exchange of ceremonies, of interminable bows and
courtesies, they took the chairs I offered them, and both set about
considering me with an air of grave beatitude.

"Well," I said, "it’s over?"

"Yes," they replied in chorus, "it’s over."

"It went off well?"

"Very well," said Mlle. de Porhoët.

"Wonderfully well," said M. Laubépin.  After a pause he added:
"Bévallan’s gone to the devil!"

"And the young Hélouin after him!" continued Mlle. de Porhoët.

I exclaimed in surprise:

"Good God! what has happened?"

"My friend," said M. Laubépin, "the contemplated union had every
possible advantage, and it would have without doubt insured the common
happiness of both the parties concerned, if marriage were a purely
commercial partnership; but it is nothing of the sort.  As my assistance
had been asked, I thought it my duty to bear in mind the inclination of
the hearts and the agreement of the character just as much as the
relative proportions of the estates.  Now, from the first, I had the
impression that the contemplated marriage had one drawback.  It pleased
no one, neither my excellent friend Mme. Laroque, nor the amiable
_fiancée_, nor their most sensible friends—no one, in fact, except
perhaps the _fiancé_, about whom I trouble myself very slightly.  It is
true (I quote here from Mlle. de Porhoët), it is true, I say, that the
_fiancé is *gentilhomme_...."

"A _gentleman_, if you please," Mlle. de Porhoët interrupted severely.

"A _gentleman_," continued M. Laubépin, accepting the correction, "but
it is a kind of _gentleman_ I don’t care for."

"Nor I," said Mlle. de Porhoët.  "There are curious specimens of the
kind.  Dissipated stablemen, such as those whom we saw last century
deserting their English stables under the direction of the Duc de
Chartres to come over here and prepare the Revolution."

"Oh, if they had only prepared the Revolution," said M. Laubépin,
sententiously, "we should forgive them."

"A million apologies, my dear sir; but—speak for yourself!  Besides,
that is not the question; will you go on?"

"So," continued M. Laubépin, "seeing that every one was approaching this
wedding as if it were a funeral, I searched for some honourable and
legal means, not to break the engagement with M. de Bévallan, but to get
him to withdraw voluntarily.  This proceeding was the more justifiable,
as in my absence M. de Bévallan had profited by the inexperience of my
excellent friend, Mme. Laroque, and the weakness of my colleague in the
neighbouring town, to make the most exorbitant demand in his own
interests.  Without departing from the wording of the agreements, I
succeeded in materially altering their spirit.  But there were limits
which honour and the engagements already entered into forbade me to
pass. And the contract remained favourable enough to be accepted with
confidence by any high-minded man who had a sincere affection for his
betrothed. Was M. de Bévallan such a man?  We had to take that risk.  I
confess that I was not free from emotion when I began to read the
irrevocable document before an imposing audience this morning."

"As for me," interrupted Mlle. de Porhoët, "I hadn’t a drop of blood
left in my veins.  The first part of the contract conceded so much to
the enemy that I thought all was lost."

"No doubt, mademoiselle; but, as we augurs say among ourselves, ’the
sting is in the tail,’ _in cauda venenum_.

"It was comical, my friend, to see the faces of M. de Bévallan and my
_confrère_ from Rennes, who assisted him, when I suddenly unmasked my
batteries.  At first they looked at each other in silence; then they
whispered together; at last they rose, and, coming to the table where I
sat, asked me in a low voice for an explanation.

"’Speak up, gentlemen, if you please,’ I said to them.  ’We must have no
mysteries here. What have you to say?’

"The company began to prick up their ears. Without raising his voice, M.
de Bévallan suggested to me that the contract showed mistrust.

"’Mistrust, sir!’ I replied, in my most impressive tone.  ’What do you
intend to convey by that?  Do you make that strange imputation against
Mme. Laroque, or against me, or against my _confrère_ here present?’

"’S-s-sh!  Silence!  No wrangling!’ said the Rennes notary discreetly;
’But listen: it was agreed in the first place that the legal system of
dotation should not be insisted on.’

"’The legal system?  And where do you find that mentioned?’

"’Oh, my dear sir, you know that you have practically reconstituted it
by a subterfuge.’

"’Subterfuge, monsieur?  Allow me, as your senior, to advise you to
withdraw that word from your vocabulary.’

"’But, after all,’ murmured M. de Bévallan, ’I’m tied hand and foot, and
treated like a school-boy.’

"’Indeed, sir!  What, in your opinion, are we here for at this moment—a
contract or a will? You forget that Mme. Laroque is living; that her
father is living, and that it is a question of marriage, not of
inheritance—at least, not yet.... Really, you must have a little
patience; you must wait a little.’

"At these words Mlle. Marguerite rose.

"’That is enough,’ she said.—’M. Laubépin, throw that contract into the
fire.  Mother, let this gentleman’s presents be returned.’

"Then she rose and left us like an outraged queen.  Mme. Laroque
followed her, and at the same time I threw the contract into the
fireplace.

"’Sir,’ said M. de Bévallan in a threatening tone, ’there’s some
trickery in this, and I will find it out.’

"’Sir,’ I replied, ’allow me to explain it to you.  A young lady, who,
with a just pride, values herself very highly, feared that your offer
might have been influenced by her wealth; she wished to be certain; she
has no longer any doubts.  I have the honour to wish you good-day!’

"Thereupon, my friend, I went after the ladies, and—upon my honour—they
embraced me.

"A quarter of an hour later, M. de Bévallan left the château with my
colleague from Rennes. His departure and disgrace have naturally
loosened the servants’ tongues, and very soon his imprudent intrigue
with Mlle. Hélouin was revealed.  The young lady, already suspected on
other grounds for some time past, has asked to be released from her
duties, and the request has been granted.  It is needless to say that
our ladies will secure her future.

"Well, my dear fellow, what do you say to all this?  Are you worse?
You’re as pale as death!"

This unexpected news had aroused so many emotions—pleasant and
painful—that I felt myself on the point of losing consciousness.

M. Laubépin, who has to leave at daybreak to-morrow, came back this
evening to wish me farewell.  After some embarrassed remarks from us
both, he said:

"Never mind, my dear boy, I’ll not cross-examine you on what is going on
here; but if you should require a confidant and a counsellor, I ask you
to give me the preference."

As a matter of fact, I could not confide in a heart more sympathetic or
more friendly.  I gave the worthy old gentleman the particulars of my
relations with Mlle. Marguerite.  I even read some pages of this journal
to him to show him more exactly the state of affairs, and also the state
of my heart.  I hid nothing from him save M. Laroque’s secret.

When I had finished, M. Laubépin, who had suddenly become very
thoughtful, began:

"It is useless to conceal from you, my friend, that when I sent you here
I intended you to marry Mlle. Laroque.  At first everything went as I
wished.  Your hearts, which I believe are worthy of one another, could
not associate without sympathizing, but this strange event, of which the
tower of Elven was the romantic scene, entirely disconcerts me, I must
confess.  Allow me to tell you, my young friend, that to jump out of
window at the risk of breaking your neck was in itself a more than
sufficient proof of your disinterestedness.  It was quite superfluous to
add to this honourable and considerate proceeding a solemn oath never to
marry this poor girl except in contingencies we cannot possibly expect
to see realized.  I pride myself on being a man of resource—but I fully
recognise that I cannot give you two hundred thousand francs, or take
them away from Mlle. Laroque."

"Then tell me what to do, sir.  I have more confidence in you than in
myself, for I see that misfortune, which is always exposed to suspicion,
has made me excessively susceptible on questions of honour.  Speak.  Do
you counsel me to forget the imprudent but still solemn oath which alone
at this moment separates me from the happiness you had imagined for your
adopted son?"

M. Laubépin rose; his thick eyebrows drawn down over his eyes, he strode
about the room for some minutes, then, stopping in front of me and
seizing my hand, he said:

"Young man, it is true that I love you like my own child; but, even at
the cost of breaking your heart and my own, I will not be false to my
principles.  It is better in matters of honour do too much than too
little, and as regards oaths, all those that are not extorted at the
point of the knife or the mouth of a pistol, should either not be taken
or should be kept.  That is my opinion."

"It is mine too.  I will leave with you to-morrow morning."

"No, Maxime, stay here a little longer.  I do not believe in miracles,
but I believe in God, who seldom allows us to be ruined by our virtues.
Give Providence more time.  I know that I am asking a very courageous
effort from you, but I claim it formally from your friendship.  If
within a month you do not hear from me—well—then you can leave."

He embraced me and left me to my quiet conscience and my desolate heart.


                                                         _October 12th_.

It is now two days since I have been able to leave my retirement and
appear at the château. I had not seen Mlle. Marguerite since we
separated at the tower of Elven.  She was alone in the _salon_ when I
entered.  Recognising me, she made—involuntarily—an effort to rise.
Then she sat motionless, and a flood of burning crimson dyed her face.
It was infectious, for I felt that I was blushing to the forehead.

"How are you, M. Odiot?" she said, holding out her hand, and she spoke
these simple words so gently, so humbly—alas! so tenderly too—that I
longed to throw myself on my knees before her. But I had to answer in a
tone of icy politeness. She looked sadly at me, lowered her great eyes
with an air of resignation, and went on with her work.

Almost at the same moment her mother called to her to come to her
grandfather, whose condition had become most alarming.  For some days
now he had lost voice and movement; the paralysis was almost total.  The
last gleams of mental life were extinguished; only physical sensibility
and the capacity for suffering remained. The end was not far off, but in
this energetic heart life was too deeply rooted to be relinquished
without an obstinate struggle.  The doctor had foretold that his agony
would last a long time.  Still, at the first appearance of danger, Mme.
Laroque and her daughter had tended him with the passionate
self-sacrifice and utter devotion which are the special virtue and glory
of their sex.  The day before yesterday they broke down exhausted.  M.
Desmarets and I offered to take their places by M. Laroque to-night, and
they agreed to have a few hours’ rest.  The doctor, who was very much
fatigued, soon told me that he was going to throw himself on the bed in
the next room.

"I am no use here," he said; "the thing is over.  You see the poor old
fellow doesn’t suffer any more.  That lethargic state is not painful.
The awakening will be death.  So we can be quiet.  Call me if you see
any change, but I think it won’t come till to-morrow.  I’m dying for a
sleep."

He gave a great yawn and went out.  His language and his conduct before
the dying man had shocked me.  He is an excellent man; but to render to
death the respect that is due to it, one must not see only the brute
matter it dissolves, but believe in the immortal essence it releases.

Left alone in the chamber of death, I sat near the foot of the bed,
where the curtains had been withdrawn, and I tried to read by a lamp
that stood on a little table near me.  The book slipped from my hands.
I could think only of the strange combination of events which, after so
many years, gave this guilty old man the grandson of his victim as
witness and guardian of his last sleep. Then, in the tranquility of that
hour and place, I recalled, in spite of myself, the scenes of tumult and
bloody violence which had filled the life that was now ebbing away.  I
looked for traces of it on the face of the dying old man and on the
large features defined in the shadow with the pale distinctness of a
plaster mask.  I saw only the solemnity and premature peace of the tomb.
At intervals I went to the bedside to make sure that the weakened breast
still heaved with vital breath.  Towards the middle of the night an
irresistible torpor seized me, and I slept, leaning my forehead on my
hand.  Suddenly I was awakened by a strange and sinister sound.  I
looked up, and a shudder ran through the marrow of my bones.  The old
man was half-sitting up in bed, staring at me with an intent, astonished
look, and an expression of life and intelligence that I had not seen in
him before.  When our eyes met he started, stretched out his arms, and
said, in a beseeching voice, whose strange unknown quality almost
stopped the beating of my heart:

"Marquis, forgive me!"

In vain I tried to rise, to speak.  I sat petrified in my chair.

After a silence, during which the dying man’s eyes were still fixed on
mine beseechingly, he repeated:

"Marquis, deign to forgive me."

At last I summoned up strength to go to him. As I approached he drew
back fearfully, as if shrinking from a dreadful contact.  I raised my
hand, and lowering it gently before his staring and terror-stricken
eyes:

"Rest in peace," I said; "I forgive you."

Before I had done speaking, his withered face lighted up with a flash of
joy and youth.  Two tears burst from his dry and sunken orbits.  He
stretched a hand to me, then suddenly the hand stiffened in a
threatening gesture, and I saw his eyes roll between their dilated lids,
as if a ball had gone through his heart.

"Oh, the English!" he whispered, and immediately fell back on the pillow
like a log.  He was dead.  I called quickly, and the others came. Soon
he was surrounded by pious mourners, weeping and praying for him.  I
retired, my soul deeply moved by this extraordinary scene, which I had
resolved should ever remain a secret between myself and the dead man.

This sad event brought me cares and duties which I needed to justify me
in my own eyes for remaining in the house.  I cannot fathom M.
Laubépin’s motives for advising me to delay my departure.  What did he
hope from it?  To me he seems to have yielded to a vague presentiment
and childish weakness, to which a man of his stamp should never have
given way, and to which I also was wrong to submit.  Why did he not see
that besides bringing additional suffering on me, he put me in a
position that is neither manly nor dignified?  What am I to do here now?
Would they not have good reason to reproach me with trifling with sacred
feelings?  My first interview with Mlle. Marguerite had shown me how
hard and how unbearable was the trial to which I had been condemned.
The death of M. Laroque would make our relations easier, and give my
presence a sort of propriety.

_October 26th, Rennes_.

All is over!  God, how strong that tie was! How it held my heart, and
how it has torn it as it broke!  Yesterday evening about nine, as I
leaned on my open window, I was surprised to see a faint light coming
towards my house through the dark alleys of the park, and from a
direction which the servants at the château do not frequent.  A moment
afterward there was a knock at my door and Mlle. de Porhoët came in
breathless.

"Cousin," she said, "I have business with you."

I looked straight at her.

"A misfortune?" I said.

"No, it is not precisely that.  Besides, you shall judge for yourself.
My dear child, you have passed two or three evenings this week at the
château.  Have you noticed nothing unusual, nothing peculiar, in the
attitude of the ladies?"

"Nothing."

"Have you not even noticed an unusual serenity in their appearance?"

"Perhaps I have.  Allowing for the melancholy due to their recent
sorrow, they seemed calmer and happier than before."

"No doubt.  Other things would have struck you if, like me, you had
lived in daily intimacy with them for fifteen years.  Thus, I have
observed signs of some secret understanding and mysterious agreement
between them.  Moreover, their habits have been largely altered. Mme.
Laroque has given up her _braséro_, her sentry-box, and all her little
Creole fancies.  She rises at marvellous hours, and at daybreak instals
herself with Marguerite at the work-table.  They are both taken with a
sudden passion for embroidery, and have ascertained how much a woman can
earn at that work in a day.  In short, there is a riddle to which I
cannot find the answer.  But it has been told me, and though I may be
intruding on your secrets, I thought it right to inform you at once."

I assured Mlle. Porhoët of my absolute confidence in her, and she
continued:

"Mme. Aubry came to see me this evening secretly.  She began by throwing
her wretched arms round my neck, which displeased me very much.  Then,
to the accompaniment of a thousand jeremiads about herself—which I will
spare you—she begged me to stop her relations on the brink of ruin.
This is what she has heard, through listening at doors, according to her
pretty habit: The ladies are trying to get permission to transfer all
their property to a community at Rennes, so as to do away with the
difference of fortune which separates you and Marguerite.  As they can’t
make you rich, they will make themselves poor.  I thought it impossible
to let you remain ignorant of this determination, which is equally
worthy of those generous souls and of those Quixotic heads.  You will
forgive my adding that it is your duty to put an end to this design at
any cost.  I need not point out the regrets it will infallibly bring to
our friends, nor the terrible responsibility it will throw on you.  That
you will see at a glance.  If, my friend, you can from this moment
accept the hand of Marguerite, everything will end in the best way
possible.  But in that respect you have tied yourself by an engagement
which is not the less binding because it was made imprudently and
blindly.  There is then only one thing for you to do—to leave this
country and resolutely extinguish all the hopes that your presence here
must inevitably encourage. When you are no longer here I shall have less
difficulty in bringing these two children to reason."

"Very well.  I am ready.  I will go this very night."

"Good!" she said.  "When I give you this advice I obey a very rigorous
law of honour. You have made the last moments of my long solitude
pleasant, and you have given me back the illusion of the sweet
attachments of life, which I had lost for so many years.  In sending you
away I make my last sacrifice; it is immense."

She rose and looked at me for a moment without speaking.

"At my age we do not embrace young people," she continued, smiling
sadly; "we bless them.  Adieu, dear child, and thank you.  May God keep
you!"

I kissed her trembling hands, and she left me hastily.

I hurriedly prepared for my departure, and then wrote a few lines to
Mme. Laroque.  I begged her to renounce a decision the effect of which
she could not foresee, and which, for my part, I was determined to have
no share in.  I gave her my word—which she knew she could rely on—that I
would never accept my happiness at the cost of her ruin.  And I
finished—for the sake of dissuading her from her fantastic project—by
speaking vaguely of a future which might bring me fortune.

At midnight, when everything was silent, I said farewell, a bitter
farewell, to the old tower where I had suffered—and loved—so much.  I
slipped into the château by a secret door of which I had the key.
Furtively, like a criminal, I passed along the empty and resounding
galleries, guiding myself as I best could in the dark. At last I reached
the _salon_ where I had first seen her.  She and her mother had not long
left it, and their recent presence was revealed by a sweet and pleasant
perfume which transported me.  I searched, and I touched the basket
where a few moments before she had replaced her embroidery. Alas, my
poor heart!

I fell on my knees before the seat she generally occupies, my forehead
against the marble. I wept.  I sobbed like a child.  God, how I loved
her!

The last hours of the night I spent in reaching the little town
secretly, and thence I drove to Rennes this morning:

To-morrow evening I shall be in Paris.  O poverty, solitude, and
despair, which I had left there, I shall find you again!  Last dream of
youth—dream of heaven, farewell!


                                                                  PARIS.

The next day, in the morning, as I went to the railway station, a
post-chaise stood in the courtyard of the _hôtel_, and I saw old Alain
get out.  His face brightened as he saw me.

"Oh, sir, what good luck!  You’ve not gone!  Here is a letter for you."

I recognised M. Laubépin’s writing.  He said that Mlle. de Porhoët was
seriously ill and was asking for me.  I only allowed time to change the
horses, and threw myself into the chaise, after forcing Alain to get in
with me.  I questioned him eagerly, and made him repeat his news, which
seemed incredible.

The evening before, Mlle. de Porhoët had received an official despatch
through M. Laubépin, announcing her succession to the entire Spanish
property.

"And it seems," said Alain, "that she owes it to you, sir, for finding
some old papers in the pigeon-house that have proved the old lady’s
title. I don’t know how much truth there is in this, but if it is so,
what a pity she has those ideas about the cathedral and won’t give them
up, for she’s more bent on it than ever.  When she first got the news
she fell flat on the floor, and we thought she was dead.  But an hour
after she began talking about her cathedral, the choir, and the nave,
the north aisle and the south, the chapter, and the canons.  To calm her
we had to fetch an architect and masons, and put the plans of her
blessed building on her bed.  At last, after three hours of that kind of
talk, she quieted down a bit and dozed.  When she awoke she asked for
you, sir—M. le Marquis" (Alain bowed, closing his eyes)—"and I had to
run after you.  It seems she wants to consult you about the rood-loft."

This strange event took me entirely by surprise.  Nevertheless, my
memory, aided by the confused details given me by Alain, enabled me to
find an explanation, which more precise information completely
confirmed.  As I have before said, the affair of the Spanish inheritance
of the Porhoëts had gone through two phases.  There had first been a
long lawsuit between Mlle. de Porhoët and one of the great families of
Castile, which my old friend had finally lost.  Then there had been a
new suit between the Spanish heirs and the Crown, the latter claiming on
the grounds of intestacy.

Shortly after this, while pursuing my researches in the Porhoët
archives, I had, about two months before leaving the château, laid hands
upon a curious document, which I will here transcribe:


"Don Philip, by the Grace of God, King of Castile, Leon, Aragon, the two
Sicilies, Jerusalem, Navarre, Grenada, Toledo, Valencia, Galicia,
Majorca, Seville, Sardinia, Cordova, Cadiz, Murcia, Jaen, of the
Algarves, of Algeciras, Gibraltar, the Canary Islands, the West and East
Indies, the islands and continents of the ocean, the Archduchy of
Austria; Duke of Burgundy, Brabant, and Milan; Count of Hapsburg,
Flanders, the Tyrol, and Barcelona; Lord of Biscay and Molina, etc.

"To thee, Hervé-Jean Jocelyn, Lord of Porhoët-Gaël, Count of Torre
Nuevas, etc., who hast followed me throughout my dominions, and served
me with exemplary fidelity, I promise, by special favour, that in case
of the extinction of thy direct and legitimate progeny, the possessions
of thy house shall return, even to the detriment of my Crown, to the
direct and legitimate descendants of the French branch of the
Porhoët-Gaëls, as long as any such shall exist.

"And I make this covenant for myself and for my successors on my royal
faith and word.

"Given at the Escorial, April 10, 1716.

"YO EL REY."


Together with this document, which was merely a translator’s copy, I
found the original text, bearing the arms of Spain.  The importance of
this document had not escaped me, but I had feared to exaggerate it.  I
greatly doubted whether the validity of a title of such ancient date,
and prior to so many momentous events, would be recognised by the
Spanish Government. I even doubted whether it would have the power to
give effect to it, even if it had the will.  I had therefore decided to
say nothing to Mlle. de Porhoët about a discovery, the consequences of
which seemed to me most problematic, and I had contented myself with
sending the document to M. Laubépin.  As I had heard nothing more of it,
I had soon forgotten it in the midst of the personal cares with which I
was overwhelmed at the time.  However, contrary to my unjust suspicions,
the Spanish Government had not hesitated to carry out Philip V’s
covenant, and at the very moment when a supreme decree had handed over
the vast possessions of the Porhoëts to the Crown, it had nobly restored
them to the legitimate heir.

About nine that evening I stopped at the humble house where this royal
fortune had arrived so tardily.  The little servant opened the door. She
was crying.

From the staircase above came the grave voice of M. Laubépin.

"It is he," said the voice.

I went up the stairs quickly.  The old man grasped my hand warmly, and
took me into Mlle. de Porhoët’s room.  The doctor and the curé stood
silent in the shadow of the window. Mme. Laroque knelt at the bedside;
her daughter was arranging the pillow where the pale face of my old
friend rested.  When the sick woman saw me a faint smile flickered
across her face.  Painfully she moved one of her arms.  I took her hand;
I fell on my knees; I could not keep back my tears.

"My child," she said, "my dear child!"

Then she looked intently at M. Laubépin. The old notary took from the
bed a piece of paper, and, as if he were continuing to read after an
interruption, he went on:


"For these reasons," he read, "I appoint by this holograph will
Maxime-Jacques-Marie Odiot, Marquis de Champcey d’Hauterive, noble by
heart as by descent, sole and universal legatee of all my property in
Spain as well as in France, without reserve or condition.  Such is my
will.

"JOCELYNDE JEANNE,
"COMTESSE DE PORHOËT-GAËL."


In my astonishment I had risen and was about to speak, when Mlle. de
Porhoët, gently retaining my hand, placed it in Marguerite’s.  At this
sudden contact the dear creature trembled.  She bent her young forehead
on the mournful pillow, and, blushing, whispered something in the dying
woman’s ear.  I could not speak.  I fell on my knees, and prayed to God.
Some minutes passed in solemn silence, when Marguerite suddenly withdrew
her hand with a gesture of alarm.  The doctor came up hastily.  I rose.
Mlle. de Porhoët’s head had fallen back; with a fixed and radiant glance
she looked towards heaven; her lips half-opened, and as if she were
speaking in a dream, she whispered:

"God! the good God!  I see Him there ... up there....  Yes ... the choir
... the golden lamps ... the windows ... the sun everywhere....  Two
angels kneeling before the altar ... in white robes ... their wings move
... God, they are alive!"

This cry died on her lips, which remained smiling.  She closed her eyes
as if she were going to sleep, and suddenly an air of immortal youth
fell on her face, making it almost unrecognisable to us.

[Illustration: "I felt her lips on mine——I thought my soul was escaping
from me" (see page 246)]

Such a death, after such a life, had lessons with which I desired to
fill my soul.  I begged to be left alone with the priest in the room.
This pious vigil will not, I believe, be unavailing. From that face,
irradiated with a glorious peace, where a supernatural light seemed to
glow, more than one forgotten or questioned truth came home to me with
irresistible force.  Noble and holy friend, well I knew that the virtue
of sacrifice was yours!  Now I see that you have entered into your
reward.

About two hours after midnight, yielding to fatigue, I longed to breathe
the fresh air for a moment.  I went down the dark staircase and into the
garden, avoiding the _salon_ on the ground floor, where I had seen a
light.  The night was profoundly dark.  As I approached the arbour at
the end of the little inclosure, I heard a faint sound, and at the same
moment a shadowy form detached itself from the foliage.  I felt a sudden
rapture; my heart leaped, and I saw the heavens fill with stars.

"Marguerite!" I cried, holding out my arms. I heard a little cry, then
my name murmured faintly, then silence ... and I felt her lips on mine.
I thought that my soul was escaping from me.

                     *      *      *      *      *

I have given Hélène half my fortune.  Marguerite is my wife.  I close
these pages forever. I have nothing more to intrust to them.  What has
been said of nations may be said of men: "Happy are those who have no
history."




           *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *




                   *THE PORTRAITS OF OCTAVE FEUILLET*


In spite of the fashionable popularity achieved by Octave Feuillet as
early as the year 1855, a popularity which never waned to his last hour,
it seems that his life, which we should have pictured excessively
brilliant and public, was in reality quiet and retired. The author of
"M. de Camors" and of the "Roman d’un Jeune Homme pauvre" was, as his
portraits attest, melancholy of temperament and contemplative of mind, a
man who was happiest in his own study, who preferred the distant echoes
of his literary triumphs in his home, to noisy manifestations thereof in
the world of social pleasure.

[Illustration: OCTAVE FEUILLET (In 1850) After a drawing by the engraver
Monciau]

Feuillet was the official novelist of the Second Empire, the pet writer
of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_.  He was received at Court among the
distinguished guests who had the _entrée_ at Compiègne and
Fontainebleau.  His plays and _proverbes_ were acted in the Imperial
theatres, at fashionable watering-places, and on the miniature stages of
marionettes.  The Empress treated him with marked distinction.  It is
difficult to understand why an author so honoured and so much sought
after should have left so few portraits—canvases, medallions,
water-colours or engravings.  Feuillet evidently was not lavish of his
time in his sittings to artists, for neither Dubufe, nor Carolus-Duran,
nor Winterhalter reproduced his features—a fact we find it almost hard
to believe of a man who enjoyed the popularity of Feuillet.  But we must
accept the fact.

[Illustration: OCTAVE FEUILLET (In 1879) After a sketch made in Geneva]

Madame Octave Feuillet, to whom I went for final confirmation of this
supposed dearth of artistic documents relating to her deceased husband,
showed me everything she had as mementoes of the delicate psychologist
to whose success she so largely contributed by her feminine diplomacy,
her social observations, and her subtle and very cultivated mind.

"Alas!" she said, "I do not know why I am not richer in pictures of my
dear lost one, for he had endless opportunities of being painted, but he
was always too nervous and too busy to undertake the sittings proposed
by various artists. This is why I can only show you a little portrait
painted by Bonvin just before 1850, which represents him with a
Musset-like face, and agrees pretty closely with a drawing of the same
period by the engraver Monciau, which could easily be reproduced."

[Illustration: OCTAVE FEUILLET After a photograph taken in 1880]

"Beyond these souvenirs of Octave Feuillet as a young man," continued
his widow, "I have nothing but a drawing by Dantan, made at the time of
the great success of the _Sphinx_ at the Comedie Française, that is to
say, about ten years before his death, and a large canvas by Hirch, a
full-length, painted after 1880.  But isn’t it too dark for
reproduction?"

To these portraits of the author of "Julia de Trécoeur" we may add a
number of photographs, all of them taken after 1860.  First, the large
full-length portrait published by Goupil about 1869 in the "Galerie
Contemporaine."  In spite of the defects inherent in all photographs,
this is the most like him of all his portraits: it is reproduced as the
frontispiece of this volume.  We have given several others, among them
one from Monciau’s drawing, which shows us an Octave Feuillet of
thirty-five, who is nevertheless somewhat morose-looking, and various
presentments of the quinquagenarian Academician, with the white hair and
grey beard of a man still in his prime, which offer a much nobler and
more attractive semblance of the writer who has been called "The family
Musset."

[Illustration: OCTAVE FEUILLET The last photograph taken in 1889]

After the death of the famous novelist and playwright, the sculptor
Crauck executed a fine bust of him with the aid of instructions given
him by one of the author’s sons, Richard Feuillet.  Another bust, of
little interest and a poor likeness, is at the Hôtel de Ville of St. Lo,
where Feuillet was born, and where he often came to rest at his property
during the summer.

[Illustration: OCTAVE FEUILLET Sketch by Dantan, about 1878]

Octave Feuillet’s iconological record certainly does not arrest
attention by any curious, startling, or hitherto unpublished elements.
We have no childish or youthful portraits, nothing but the cold
countenance of the man who had already "arrived;" no whimsical artistic
sketch, not even any satirical caricature, to compromise, enliven, or
give a Bohemian touch to the dignified attitude and severe correctness
of the writer of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_.  It is, we think, to be
regretted. Octave Feuillet remains an over-official figure for us,
bearing too obviously the stamp of the photographer’s solemn poses, and
sacramental "Quite still, please."


OCTAVE UZANNE.








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