Les réprouvés et les élus (t.1) 📖✨

🔮 Découvrez le premier tome de *Les réprouvés et les élus* d’Émile Souvestre ! Un récit captivant qui plonge dans les profondeurs de l’âme humaine, où le destin des personnages se joue entre la rédemption et la damnation. 🌑✝️

🔍 Plongez dans l’histoire de ces âmes perdues et élues, confrontées à des choix tragiques et des épreuves spirituelles. Souvestre nous invite à une réflexion sur la condition humaine, la lutte intérieure et les conséquences de nos actes. 📚💭

🔔 Abonnez-vous à notre chaîne pour ne rien manquer des prochains chapitres et récits fascinants !

🔑 Points forts du livre :

– Exploration de la dualité de l’âme humaine ⚖️
– Des personnages profonds et torturés 🎭
– Une réflexion sur la rédemption et la damnation ⛓️
– Un style narratif captivant et riche en émotion ✍️

📲 Abonnez-vous ici : https://bit.ly/LivresAudioLaMagieDesMots
-Louise et Barnavaux 🏰💔: Une histoire d’amour tragique [https://youtu.be/UFi8BZ8LD0M]

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**Navigate by Chapters or Titles:**
00:00:25 Chapter 1.
00:23:55 Chapter 2.
00:55:24 Chapter 3.
01:22:35 Chapter 4.
01:34:33 Chapter 5.
01:50:34 Chapter 6.
02:10:01 Chapter 7.
02:26:19 Chapter 8.
02:38:51 Chapter 9.
02:50:34 Chapter 10.
03:03:19 Chapter 11.
03:28:07 Chapter 12.
03:43:01 Chapter 13.
03:54:03 Chapter 14.
04:08:59 Chapter 15.
04:32:05 Chapter 16.
04:48:13 Chapter 17.
05:04:21 Chapter 18.
05:27:05 Chapter 19.
05:40:35 Chapter 20.
05:57:11 Chapter 21.
06:11:28 Chapter 22.
06:34:43 Chapter 23.
06:50:49 Chapter 24.
07:11:18 Chapter 25.
07:32:07 Chapter 26.
07:50:12 Chapter 27.
08:07:14 Chapter 28.

In this first volume of The Forsaken and the Chosen, Émile Souvestre immerses us in a world of passions and inner struggles. The story explores the moral and spiritual conflicts that tear its characters apart, caught between temptation and redemption. Through poignant events and profound reflections on the human condition, Souvestre invites us to reflect on life, faith, and destiny. This story is a moving journey into the dilemmas of the human soul. Chapter 1. An Isolated House. It has been noted many times that each city, like each person, has its own individual and easily recognizable physiognomy. Thus, without speaking of the stark appearances of the seaport, where everything smells of tar, of the frontier town surrounded by walls and lined with cannons, of the manufacturing city bristling with gigantic chimneys and always enveloped in a cloud of smoke, there are cities of study, like Rennes and Montpellier, where the grass pierces the paving stones, and whose vast squares are crossed only by magistrates in togas or by professors in simares; there are historic cities, like Arles, Orléans, Fontainebleau, where you are shown the ancient arenas, the house of Joan of Arc and the table on which Napoleon signed his abdication; there are cities of legend, like Strasbourg, whose life merges with that of its cathedral; poetic cities, like Toulouse, Dijon, Avignon; royal cities, like Versailles. Then come those whose external character owes nothing to the past, but to some picturesque chance of the sky or the site; this one rustic, that one worldly, one coquettish, the other neglected. Now, among the infinite variety of these last physiognomies, we know one which deserves to be specially mentioned, it is that of Château-Lavallière. Château-Lavallière, which cannot pass precisely for a village, is not quite a town either. It is what the provincials, who do not pride themselves on beautiful language, call a place. Placed on the borders of Indre-et-Loire, between the departments of Loir-et-Cher, Sarthe and Maine-et-Loire, far from all the major communication routes and hidden, like a nest, in the middle of its forest, Château-Lavallière has, in its aspect, something mysterious and, so to speak, romantic. To see its deserted streets, onto which low, hidden doors open, its gardens surrounded by walls uninterrupted by any skylight, its houses preceded by a closed courtyard, which veils them, its windows with elegant but always drawn curtains, one would think one of those asylums where unremediable sorrows , solitary joys and threatened loves go to hide. On whatever roof the eye rests, one recognizes the retreat where one would have liked to shut oneself up at twenty, with some adored woman, whose name one has forgotten . Behind each garden stretches the forest, a promenade open to long tête-à-têtes and long reveries; lower down a pond bordered by gladioli bathes the foot of the hill. The sounds of the city are covered by the murmur of the wind in the trees and by the songs of birds. Only from time to time does the rustling of wheels brush against the pavement; A half-closed carriage passing reveals a fluttering veil, a gloved hand, then everything quickly disappears beneath the immense avenues!
As we see Château-Lavallière today, as we saw it in 1819, the time when our story begins. It was the end of September; the day was drawing to a close, and the setting sun cast fiery glimmers through the foliage of the high forest. On the very edge of the forest there was an isolated dwelling, to which its doors and shutters, painted in the color so beloved by Rousseau, had given the name of the green house. Built between courtyard and garden, like most of the bourgeois residences of Château-Lavallière, it had, in its exterior, something even more mysterious and more closed than the neighboring houses. But if from the outside its walls adorned with broken glass, its The gate with its grilled wicket and its bell with an iron chain gave it the appearance of a convent or a prison; inside, this physiognomy disappeared completely, thanks to the elegance of the dwelling and the gaiety of its surroundings. The courtyard onto which the facade opened had been transformed into a flowerbed, decorated with rare plants, and the walls themselves, hidden under honeysuckle, jasmine and Virginia creeper, resembled clumps of greenery. Opposite the steps, a marble bowl rose in the middle of a tuft of reeds and let its waters overflow into a basin where a few golden fish swam, while a little further on, a small aloe hammock suspended from two lilacs, swayed gently in the breeze. Children’s toys were scattered on all sides, on the sand of the paths, among the fine grass of the lawns and along the steps leading to the house. This ensemble of luxurious and flowery prodigality served, so to speak, as a frame for a group placed in the very middle of a flowerbed, and whose figures deserve a detailed examination. The first figure that struck one was that of a still young woman, seated on a bamboo armchair, in the slumped attitude of a sick person. Although one could not call her beautiful, her features had an expression of sweetness that was illuminated at times by a certain flame in her gaze. This became especially animated when it lowered itself towards a child seated lower down on the knees of a young peasant woman. It was a little girl of about three years old, but whose puny and pale features announced one of those withered childhoods that cannot blossom into life. Half-leaning on her nurse’s breast, she languidly shook the bells of a rattle that she let fall every moment with a cry of bored suffering. Although the air was warm and no breath stirred the most fragile leaves, she was wrapped in a satin pelisse, lined with swanskin, and wore a garnet velvet cap that barely revealed a few tufts of lifeless blond hair. Her feet, shod in fur-lined boots, hung on the grass, without strength or movement. As for the fourth person, he was forty years old. Dressed in a black frock coat buttoned to the cravat, and his eyes hidden by a pair of double-lensed spectacles, he held in his hand a leather riding crop, with which he brushed dusty boots adorned with spurs. Despite the constant smile that fluttered across his face, a disciple of Lavater would have studied with some distrust those tight lips that the master points out as an indication of a tenacious avarice, and the partisans of Gall would have been almost frightened by that triangular skull whose shape recalled that of the least noble and most blood-loving animals. But, whatever scientific impression might have been produced by the examination of the features and skull of M. Vorel, the most rigid observer would have had difficulty retaining it when hearing him speak. His voice had a calm simplicity, equally far from brusqueness and sweet affectation. Similar to certain singers, whose timbre retains a moving expression without them being moved, the doctor had, in his accent, a precision and frankness that were, so to speak, involuntary, and, even when deceiving, he preserved that loyal voice that confounded all prejudices; in him it was more than calculation, more than skill; he had received, at birth, the gift of lying. Moreover, the first part of his life had been cruelly crossed. Without a name, without fortune, without protectors, he had only managed to acquire a profession through hard work and humility. Dominating by nature, he had bowed to all the wishes of those who could serve him; bold in spirit, he had clipped the wings of his audacity to force it to crawl! This forced transformation, by killing all that he could keep of happy instinct, had, so to speak, poisoned his vices! What was hard in him had become wicked; his desire to possess had turned into insatiable avarice, his insensitivity into malevolence. Hindered and wounded by men from his first steps, he had begun to hate them, not with that open hatred which still presupposes freedom, but with a deaf, cautious, chained hatred, which contains itself by calculation and consents to wait, in the interest of his safety. Established first in Trévières, in Normandy, he had made the acquaintance there of a rich country landowner known in the region under the name of Mother Louis. Mother Louis, whose husband, initially a miller, had acquired an enormous fortune by purchasing national property , had long been a widow, and was herself cultivating the large Motteux estate: she was a violent, selfish woman, with coarse manners, but of whom some good deeds were cited, which served as an excuse for the bad ones. She had received the young doctor well there, because he gave her recipes for her rheumatism, and he treated her sick cattle for free. The latter took advantage of this to insinuate himself into the good graces of the daughter of the house, and to ask for her hand in marriage. The landlady of the Motteux, as was to be expected, rejected such a claim from afar; but Vorel persuaded the girl to go ahead with it, by means of one of those acts that the legislator has so amusingly called respectful submissions. The marriage took place in spite of Mother Louis, who was, moreover, obliged to pay about one hundred thousand crowns which were due to the young bride from her father. This last circumstance raised against M. Vorel all the relatives who had accounts to render to their daughters, and there followed a kind of disapproval which decided the doctor to leave Trévières to go to Touraine and settle in Bourgueil, where part of his family lived. Having become a widower after a few years, he had continued to live there with an only son, then infirm and almost stupid. But, besides the daughter married to Doctor Vorel, Mother Louis had a son taken by conscription, and whom the chance of war had favored. Promoted from rank to rank on the battlefield, he had had, with the then common merit of fighting well, the rarer one of surviving; and Napoleon, who was beginning to feel the need to renew his staff of overfed and aged marshals, had successively named him general, then baron. Finally, in 1810, he married Mademoiselle de Mazerais, whose old nobility was to serve to support his title of new date. The fall of the empire unfortunately came to cut short all his hopes. General Louis received the news in Vendée, where he had been sent to suppress the insurrection, and, whether through grief or chance, he survived only a few days. His widow, after having lived in Paris for some time, finally came to visit some properties she owned in Touraine, and it was there that she met her brother-in-law, at whose insistence she settled at Château-Lavallière. Such was the relationship existing between Doctor Vorel and Baroness Louis, whom we have just shown the reader, sitting together under a cradle in the Maison verte. The doctor had just bent over the child, whose complaints, at first weak and interrupted, had gradually become louder, when the Baroness cried out: “My God! Doctor, Honorine seems even more unwell this evening. ” M. Vorel nodded with an unchanging smile. “Who makes you believe that?” he asked, in his soft and vibrant voice. “Can’t you hear her cries? ” “The child has no other way of expressing her impressions and her whims; she cries, just as a reasonable being rumbles, speaks, or sings.” “But Honorine is crying, doctor! ” “The secretion of the lacrimal glands is always abundant at this age. It is clear, my sister, that this is your first child; everything worries you. ” “But remember that she will soon be three years old,” the mother continued, pointing to the sickly and dejected little girl. “I know,” replied the doctor; “she was born eight months after the general’s death.” The patient nodded. “Poor Louis!” continued M. Vorel with affected good nature. “If he had lived, what happiness for him to find himself a father!… and above all, what unexpected happiness! For he told me many times that he no longer counted on it. He thought he had reason to believe…. Well, he was mistaken! But it must be admitted, my sister, that this trip to Vendée to join the general was a happy accident!” The Baroness did not reply and leaned towards the child, fastening her coat. “Would it not be prudent to bring Honorine back?” she asked after a short silence. “Why is that?” said the doctor. “There is neither wind nor humidity; you are taking excessive precautions. ” “Alas! I do not know,” replied the widow in a moved tone. “Unable to discover the cause of my daughter’s sufferings, nor my own, I blame everything around me.” When I came to settle here, I hoped, based on your assurance, that the calm of this dwelling, the exercise, the air of the woods would restore our health; and for the three months we have been here, our strength has been weakening day by day. The open air, the sun, the scent of flowers, everything that sustains others, seems, for us, poison. You pretend in vain not to notice it, the progress of the disease is visible. When I go out now, the peasant women we meet no longer stop Honorine to ask her age and kiss her; they move away with their children, as if they feared some malignant influence, and follow us with that half-frightened look that the people cast at the dying. M. Vorel wanted to interrupt her. “Oh! don’t try to deny it,” she continued more quickly, ” medical explanations could change nothing of what is; I feel that life is slipping away from us, and yet my daughter must not die, doctor! I myself want to live for her, and since our stay here has been so unsuccessful, I wish to make another attempt. The doctor looked at her. “Are you thinking of leaving?” he asked abruptly. “Yes, brother,” replied the Baroness. “Would you, by any chance, have the thought of accepting Mother Louis’s invitation and going to Les Motteux? ” “No, I would be afraid of finding neither care nor rest there; but I want to attempt a journey to Italy; it is a last resort for the desperate! ” “And you will expose yourself with your daughter to the fatigue of this long journey? You will dare to transport your illness to a foreign country, where, if it worsens, you will find neither care nor family? ” “Forgive me, doctor; I will not be alone, my sister will accompany me. ” “Madame la Comtesse de Luxeuil?” “I knew she was going to visit Naples; I wrote to her asking her to allow me to follow her with Honorine, and she consented. All this was decided since your last visit, and I would have informed you of it by letter if I had not been waiting for you every day; I was unaware that an affair had called you to Orléans. ” M. Vorel could not restrain a gesture of vexation. “I admire your truly Christian mercy, my sister,” he said with an accent of ironic bitterness. “As a young girl, you had to defend your fortune against Madame de Luxeuil; married, she tried to slander your intimacy with the Duke of Saint-Alofe; widowed, she wanted to cast odious doubts on the birth of your daughter, and you have already forgiven everything! ” “Ah! why touch on these memories,” interrupted the invalid, whose eyes filled with tears; “I would like to forget them!” What’s the use of reminding me that my sister doesn’t love me, that no one has ever loved me! There are certain beings, alas! like the trees you see there: born in bad soil and exposed to the north winds, they are useless and please no one!… But I don’t want to dwell on these thoughts, I want to think only of my daughter; she must recover her health, try another air, another life!
–And in leaving with Madame de Luxeuil, observed the doctor, you didn’t reflect that you were putting yourself at her mercy? You don’t fear not her selfishness, her tyranny, her harshness? “I fear only Honorine’s illness,” the Baroness resumed quickly; “don’t talk to me about anything else. What could I do, anyway? Didn’t you just tell me yourself that it would have been madness to leave alone? Who should I contact? Would strangers want to accept a sick child and a dying woman as traveling companions? My sister, at least, will have pity on us. ” M. Vorel shook his head. “I’m sure of it,” the Baroness continued quickly; “when she learned of Honorine’s alarming condition, she showed herself worried, she wrote to me immediately that she wanted to see her. ” “No doubt,” said the doctor in the same bitter tone, “your daughter’s illness occupies and interests her! In the absence of children, the sisters are legitimate heirs… ” “Ah! what are you saying?” interrupted the Baroness with a cry; you might suppose…. “I suppose nothing, but I understand. ” “No, no, it is impossible! Your prejudices against Madame de Luxeuil make you unjust; it cannot be, doctor, it is not!….. It would be too horrible. She, good God! my sister, might have thought that if my daughter…. Ah! poor child, poor child! She had bent towards Honorine, whom she took eagerly in her arms , covering her with kisses and tears. There was a rather long pause. M. Vorel maintained a constrained silence, which seemed to confirm and aggravate what he had just said; at last, however, he resumed speaking and asked the sick woman when she intended to join Madame de Luxeuil. “I am not joining her,” replied the Baroness, “she is coming for me. ” “Here! When? ” “First thing in the morning; tomorrow perhaps. Her departure depends on Doctor Darcy. ” “How?” “You know that he was to make this journey to Italy in the company of my sister, whose devoted friend he is. ” “I know. ” “Well! Upon learning of my request, he thought that his presence might be useful to two sick people… ” “And he is coming to Château-Lavallière? ” “With Madame de Luxeuil.” M. Vorel’s expression changed and he stood up abruptly. ” That is to say, my care is no longer sufficient for you,” he said brightly; ” you have distrusted the knowledge of the country doctor, and you want to appeal to the doctor in Paris. ” “I!” cried the baroness, seized, “ah! don’t believe it, my brother! On my honor! I neither desired nor called M. Darcy. ” “Who can have decided it then?” “First of all, my sister’s departure, then the desire to see Madame de Norsauf, who is at her estate in Rillé. My will had nothing to do with this journey, and chance alone did everything.” “A chance you will profit by? ” “You will decide for yourself, doctor. Forbid me to consult Mr. Darcy, and I will speak to him of nothing. Let your advice be contrary to his, and your advice alone will be followed. ” “Is that really true, my sister? ” “Do you doubt my word, my brother?” Mr. Vorel looked at the Baroness and seemed for a moment undecided. “No,” he said at last in a softened voice, “I want to believe that all this is fortuitous, as you assure me. If I appeared hurt at first , do not think that it is from a doctor’s vanity; but the heart also has its susceptibilities. ” “Oh! I know your devotion,” said Madame Louis, holding out her hand. He took it and pressed it in his with a moved air. “Yes,” he continued, “I dare say that this devotion is sincere and disinterested. Therefore, I will not abuse the confidence you show me . ” You will consult Doctor Darcy, my sister! The opinion of a man so justly celebrated can only be useful to you, and instructive to me. “Good, my brother.” The doctor was silent for a moment. “Only,” he continued with a sort of hesitation, “I will give you some advice. It is important that Mr. Darcy knows exactly what you are experiencing, and what treatment has been followed. ” “No doubt, and I will tell him… ” “No!” interrupted Mr. Vorel sharply; “patients question themselves badly; they give false indications, they report inaccurately the medications used, and it may result, for the doctor who arrives, in false impressions. –You think so? –I am sure of it; I speak in your interest, my sister, and if you believe me, you will not give Mr. Darcy any prejudices; you will let me answer him… –In truth, it is to get me out of a great embarrassment, replied the baroness, smiling, because most often I do not know how to define what I feel, and your formulas are always enigmas for me. –Then you promise to send the doctor back to me for all the explanations? –Agreed. Mr. Vorel’s face resumed its smiling expression, and he continued the conversation for some time in a friendly tone; finally, he got up, took leave of the sick woman, kissed the child, and, after making some solicitous recommendations to the nurse, he went towards the inn where he had left his horse. As long as he was in sight of the Baroness, who had escorted him to the threshold of the little gate in the flowerbed, he walked with the regular, peaceful step that was his wont; but when he had turned the street and found himself far from all eyes, on the deserted road, his pace became imperceptibly quicker. The smile that gave his face a sort of mechanical bloom faded, and his relaxed features resumed that sharp form and wild appearance of which we have already spoken. Raising the riding crop he held in his hand, he began to cut down, as he passed, the young privet shoots that lined the path, as if he felt the need to vent a secret anger on something . But this sort of silent passion was short- lived; he soon dropped his riding crop, bowed his head , and slowed his pace. The reflection had evidently come, and, after having been indignant at some unexpected disappointment, he sought the means of turning it to account. One could only have defied the most skillful observer to guess the nature or the object of his preoccupation. All his movements had resumed that dull and calm appearance which, so to speak, allowed the gaze to glide; his face offered for study only a sort of terracotta mask, dry, angular, inert, on which his eyes, masked by blue spectacles, seemed two shimmering and dark spots which reflected nothing. He thus reached the Headless Woman’s Inn, where he was in the habit of putting his horse when he came to see the Baroness. Arrived there, he awoke from his reverie, and his features, as if touched by an inner spring, instantly regained their smiling tension. The Headless Woman’s Inn was one of those dubious inns recommended only by their position at the entrance to the town, and almost exclusively frequented by ball carriers, carters, and mountebanks, a traveling race who live on the highway, stop where they can, and are not bothered much by the appearance of the lodging or the choice of company. The presence of M. Vorel in such a dive might have been surprising at first ; but the innkeeper, Father Blanchet, was one of his old clients, who had left Bourgueil without having paid a long bill of illness, and the doctor, who loved order above all else, had thought that by choosing his inn he could obtain, in bran and oats, the equivalent of the consultations he had been unable to get paid for otherwise. This advantage largely compensated for the inconveniences of a lodging where he stopped for a short time. When he arrived at the Headless Woman, he ordered his horse to be prepared, and, wishing to continue to reflect while waiting for her, he avoided the common room, where the shouts of the drinkers resounded, and went to the garden behind the inn. Night had fallen, and, although there was no visible fog, not a single star appeared in the sky. M. Vorel followed the great garden path, almost obscured by the grass, and arrived at a trellis whose broken framework allowed thin and disheveled vines to hang down. Immediately above was a window belonging to the most remote room of the inn. Then open and lit, it revealed three men seated around a table, finishing their supper. Although the sound of their animated voices reached, at times, as far as the arbour, the doctor, completely absorbed in his meditation, did not seem to notice it and sat down on a bench placed under the window. We will leave him there, given over to his reflections, to introduce the reader to the very room where the three travelers were then having supper. Chapter 2. The Three Companions. Judging by the single dish placed in the middle of a table without a tablecloth, the meal that the three guests had just had had been a very modest one: an almost finished bottle of brandy was the only luxury. One side of the window was occupied by a man still young, small, bearded, pale and dressed in an almost new burgundy. He had the bottle on his right and was pouring the drink alone, a privilege that evidently distinguished him for the host. His left elbow was leaning on the table, and in his right hand he held a knife with a long, strong blade, with which he amused himself by enlarging the cracks in the worm-eaten wood. His whole person had a puny, vicious, and fierce expression that was also found in the traveler seated before him, but in different forms and with other nuances. The latter, of an enormous height, was so thin that the protrusions of his bones had left their marks on the threadbare frock coat that hugged him. His hair, a dull blond, framed one of those faces without width, and, so to speak, sharp, which, from whichever side you look at them, seem to present only a profile. Near him was an enormous knapsack containing jumbled rabbit skins, fragments of gilded porcelain, broken fake jewelry, and men’s and women’s clothing in tatters, telling evidence of a monomania for trafficking that only Hebrew origin could justify. The tall, thin man was indeed Jewish, and, moreover, Alsatian, as his Teutonic accent clearly proved. As for the third guest, seated at the head of the table, his physiognomy was less distinct. A little younger than his companions, he had an air of boldness rather than ferocity. His costume and his sun-tanned complexion might even have led one, at first glance, to take him for a peasant; but, on closer inspection, his supple figure, his quick movements, his narrow, callous-free hands did not allow one to believe that he was habitually engaged in rustic work. Everything about him rather announced the adventurer. His features had an open and carefree expression, which, without being pure, were not base either; they breathed a sort of naive brutality which could warn against the actions of the man, without inspiring hatred or disgust. Obviously chance and ignorance had a large part in this corruption, which did not seem irrevocable. At the moment when our story begins, he had just emptied his glass, which he again offered to his neighbor, banging on the table and shouting: “Something to drink, Parisian! ” The little bearded man turned slowly. “Ah! ah! Rageur,” he said with a cynical sneer, to which he seemed accustomed, “one can see that it has been a long time since you tasted eau-d’aff; you swig it like coconut seller’s tisane. ” “When one has been hungry, the stomach needs to rebuild itself,” replied the Rageur laconically. “So you’ve been in a real mess?” asked the Jew. “In a rut eating acorns, Alsatian. ” “And you haven’t found a way to make a bit of money? ” “Trade, with what? ” “With that money, you know! There’s every way to make money. ” “Yes,” interrupted the Parisian, “for you who would trade the stones on the road for pea pods; but the Rageur isn’t a bric-a-brac dealer; he worked in the big way with me, when we were making war on the clumsy [B], in Maine-et-Loire. The diligence has passed through our hands twice. “Were there many pastures there, Jacques?” the Jew asked naively. “There were two hundred thousand balls (200 thousand francs),” replied the Parisian, with triumphant laconism. “Two hundred thousand palles to you!” cried the amazed Jew. “No, to the canton commander alone,” said the Rage. “He took everything for the king’s service and kept everything for his own, which didn’t stop him from obtaining crosses, positions, pensions, while the rest of us were told to return to our villages and look for work. ” “What did you do?” said the Parisian ironically, “for you wanted to settle down. ” “Well! Afterwards?” replied the Rage brusquely; “if it was my idea?…” “Why did you give it up, then?” “Why?… you know as well as I do!” I gave it up because, in the country, they refused me work, saying that I was too well known, and that elsewhere they would not give me any, on the pretext that they did not know me. –So you got sick of looking for it? –I got sick of dying of hunger. –Proof that you were not born to be an honest man, my boy. The worker born honest must eat when he has bread, and when he has none, tighten the buckle of his trousers a notch; it is an article of morality that your priest will have forgotten to make you aware of. As for me, you see, I was no more than twelve years old when I understood the thing. –What do you mean? –My legitimate parents were the cream of virtuous couples, a father sewn with certificates of probity, and a mother who could have been made a rose gardener. My father, who was employed in the general administration of removals, had returned, I don’t know how many times, lost silverware, jewelry, and banknotes to their owners , which had earned him general esteem and a certain number of twenty-sou pieces. Unfortunately, one day while he was carrying a trunk, his foot slipped on a staircase; he made an effort, and he had to be carried to the hospital, where he died a month later. In consideration of the deceased’s good services, the administration granted my mother a gratuity of 25 francs. It wasn’t much for a man’s life, but it could have given nothing; so my mother went to thank the director. “And how old were you then?” asked the Rageur, seeming to take a sort of interest in Jacques’s story. “Eleven,” he replied, “just enough to really feel the misery!… and you can believe that we had as much as we wanted.” After a few months, my mother fell into a state of languor; she could hardly work anymore… so there was no bread. We had to beg for alms; but they had made me proud in the family: I asked badly, and most often I came back without having anything: so we went to bed fasting. So the mother went from bad to worse. They wanted to take her to the hospital, but when the doctors saw her, they said that she had no illness, that she was only suffering from hunger, and that it was an inconvenience from which they could not cure her. They sent her back to our attic, where she lingered for a few more months, until the porter told me one evening, as I was coming home, that she had just died. “Your mother!” repeated the Angerer, visibly moved, “did she die in your absence? ” “Yes,” said Jacques carelessly, “and as I was still only a child, that did something to me; especially when I found the neighbors who were around the body repeating that God had been very kind to the deceased to take it. So they only bothered about burying her. They had already asked the tenant on the first floor, who had a convertible, for a sheet , but the lady had replied that she had no old linen; finally, those in the attic rooms chipped in: they bought what was needed. As for me, I looked at all this without saying anything. I held in my hand the wallet that my mother had ordered to be given to me , and which contained our papers, marriage certificates, birth certificates, certificates of good conduct, and I thought about it myself:–So that’s how it is for the poor? All they gain by being saints is to die in a hospital or in an attic, and to be buried by the charity of neighbors who think they are very lucky to be dead! And that’s what awaits me, in the event that I do as my father did? Thank goodness! If there is no other reward for honest workers than to leave their children receipts for their probity, I prefer to live like a rogue and do nothing.– And you erased the trade right away, Barisien? –I began by going down to the porter’s house to throw into the fire all the papers left by the father and mother; it seemed to me that it was a way of renouncing the inheritance.– Well! I wouldn’t have done it like that, myself, said the Angerer with coarse sensitivity; No, if I had had parents… a mother… it seems to me that I would not have wanted to shame their name. But a foundling has no name: it is like a lost dog; everyone has the right to throw a stone at it… Ah! if I had had a family… “In that case you would have fulfilled your role as an honest man, wouldn’t you,” added Jacques with a sneer. “When one believes in paradise, well , one can hope that one will collect one’s arrears from the Eternal Father; but for those who want to live while they are still alive, the profession seems to me to be of little recreational value? What do you think, Alsatian? ” “Me,” resumed the thin man, “I reckon I would never have broken anything if I had only had a small amount to engage in business. ” The Anger burst out laughing. “That devil of a Mr. Jerusalem only dreams of his business,” he said; If he were condemned to be hanged, he would sell a rope to the butteur (executioner). “Gordes are a bad commodity,” the Alsatian observed seriously . “Not always,” Jacques continued more quietly; “I remember a certain rope, in Bourbon-Vendée, which brought us nearly two hundred louis. We should find something in the same taste here. ” “Have you looked?” asked the Rageur with an indifferent air. “Yes,” replied the Parisian. “I walked around the area to take a geography lesson; there are some houses that look good; but we should have some information about the bourgeois, since there are sometimes some who are nasty and who bother you. ” “I like to be bothered,” said the Jew, with ferocious seriousness; ” when you bother me, there’s no way to bother anything. So it’s better to make people shut up.” “That’s my opinion,” Jacques continued, “especially when you’re working blindly and have to look for the place to get the loot, as would be the case here. Once you’re sure that no one can make a noise, you take your time. ” “Possible,” said the Rage, “but it doesn’t flatter me! ” “Just act like a prude!” the Parisian continued with his pale smile. “When we were in Maine-et-Loire, perhaps you refrained from shooting down the bourgeois who lingered on the roads. ” “They were rookies!” the Rage quickly continued. “They knew we were walking in the countryside; they only had to be careful. In that case, firing a shot at a bourgeois is war; but going into his house to find him asleep in bed—I don’t have the heart for such things, you see!… especially since there might be women there, and then it would be even worse.” “That is to say, Rageur, that you drink the business water, but you do not want to win it. ” “Yes, Jacques, I want to win it, but the matter must be set up differently. Let us address ourselves, if you like, to a diligence, as in the old days; there are always people in there who can defend themselves. ” “What, you double fool! So you want to run risks? ” “Well! yes, that encourages me. ” “Knock me, knock me!” interrupted the Jew sharply. Jacques shrugged his shoulders. “Rageur has always had a hammer blow,” he said, touching his forehead with his finger; “but, when we have found an opportunity, if the thing teases him too much, he will be able to make a gallery by letting us play the party for two. “And our drinks will be all the better for it!” added the Alsatian philosophically. The arrival of the innkeeper, who came to claim the price of supper, prevented the Rageur from replying. Jacques paid the bill, offered Master Blanchet what was left in the bottle, and, after clinking glasses, all four went down to the common room where the Parisian and the Rageur began to smoke. The Jew also took a large German pipe from his waistcoat pocket , the ashes of which he ostentatiously shook over his knee for a quarter of an hour; but none of his companions having offered to fill it, he put it back in his pocket with a sigh. A few moments later, M. Vorel appeared. If one had been in Paris, the entrance of a fine suit into a place exclusively frequented by wearers of jackets and bourgerons would not have failed to excite surprise followed by murmurs and provocations; There, in fact, the more awakened popular intelligence has understood that the bourgeois never came to mingle with the habits or pleasures of the worker except in the interest of his vices, and it maintains, as a defense, this separation of classes which was imposed on him like a yoke. But in the provinces, the ancient tradition is not yet so extinguished that the freed serf does not hold in honor the contact with his former master; there, the people are still only at the level of vanity; that of Paris has already gone back to pride. The reception given to the doctor by the people gathered at the Headless Woman, made this difference clearly appreciated; most of them broke off in their conversations, and put their hands to their caps or hats, while the man with the bourgeron turned away with a grunt. “Well, so he comes here from Elbeuf,” he said loud enough to be heard by the doctor. “What is he asking for, this gentleman?” It must be the local police commissioner or a police officer disguised as a bourgeois. “No!” interrupted Maître Blanchet, who was looking for a chair for M. Vorel; “it’s Bourgueil’s doctor. Sit down, doctor ; how is the Baroness? ” “Mediocrely, Blanchet, mediocre,” replied M. Vorel, in his honest and calm voice; “I am not at all satisfied with her condition. ” “She is too sedentary,” replied the innkeeper, “one never sees her outside her convent. ” “She devotes all her time to her daughter. ” “Yes, they say she has made her house and garden a real paradise; it has even caused a commotion in the country. ” “What about? ” “Because she bought everything in Paris, the furniture, the tapestries, the flowers!” You understand, Monsieur Vorel, that when one has the means, it is only right to share it with those in the place: when she should have paid a little more, she is said to be rich without knowing her own fortune. –You know that people always exaggerate, Maître Blanchet, the Baroness has about thirty thousand livres a year. –Well! And what will come to her from your mother-in-law, the good woman Louis, for there are only two of you heirs, the Baroness’s daughter and you? –That’s true. –So, added the innkeeper, winking, if the little one didn’t grow up, you would take the entire estate alone! Well! That wouldn’t be so foolish. In the end, we are all mortal, as that other one says; it wouldn’t be your fault if the child were missing from your hand, and you would receive, as consolation, about twenty thousand livres a year. “Twenty thousand livres a year,” cried the Parisian, who had heard everything, “thunder! That’s tempting for a doctor! ” M. Vorel shuddered like a man struck by an unexpected blow; he turned pale to the lips and turned towards Jacques with an indignant exclamation; but the latter’s cynical impassivity seemed to disconcert him; he stammered a few unintelligible words, turned his head away and approached the fire as if he felt cold. The innkeeper did not appear to have noticed this rapid incident and continued: “It’s all the same, for a woman who has ten thousand crowns to spend every year, the baroness hardly makes a fuss; what can she use her money for? ” “To increase her daughter’s dowry with her savings,” replied Vorel. “Well! She must have some of those round coins then; for the devil will burn me if she spends a quarter of her income! She lives there with no other household than a gardener by the day, a goat, and a servant. ” “To my great regret,” observed the doctor; “I would like to know she was less alone. ” “And why? ” “Because the house is isolated and thieves would find the means to make a fortune there. ” “Well! I hadn’t thought of that,” said Blanchet. ” What you say is true, Monsieur Vorel. Bad fellows would only have to be warned!… It would be easy to enter by the end of the garden, which leads to the woods.” “The windows are only protected by shutters. ” “And once inside the house, one could slaughter anyone at one’s leisure; there are no neighbors. ” “It’s frightening,” repeated M. Vorel, glancing around him, as if he wanted to make sure that none of the listeners to this dialogue was a man to abuse it. But the Parisian and the Jew had just withdrawn to one side and were exchanging a few rapid words in low voices. As for the Rageur, who remained in the same place, he seemed to have listened to nothing. The Headless Woman’s stable boy entered at that moment and announced to the doctor that his horse was ready. “So you’re leaving for Bourgueil?” asked Blanchet. “No,” said M. Vorel, “I’m continuing to Le Vivier, where Lord Murfey has been asking me to go for a long time. ” “Is the Englishman ill?” asked the innkeeper. “Not exactly,” said M. Vorel, smiling; “but as he has nothing to do, he gorges himself on beef and Madeira for six days, and takes medicine on the seventh. Goodbye, Father Blanchet. ” The doctor, after buttoning his landlady’s coat to the top , plunged both hands into his large pockets to look for his gloves; but he took out a small sealed box, at the sight of which he made a gesture of disappointment. “To hell with you, the absent-minded fellow!” he cried. “I forgot to give Honorine the pastilles.” The truth was that his preoccupation, at the moment of leaving the baroness, had made him forget the box. “Is there something urgent?” asked the innkeeper. “No doubt,” continued the doctor; “but I am already late, and I would not like to return to my sister-in-law’s; could you not, Father Blanchet, have this given to her at once?” “I will do my best, Monsieur Vorel,” replied the innkeeper with a little hesitation; “but, for the moment, I have only Joseph here, who cannot leave the stable. ” “Try to find someone else,” said the doctor, looking around him with a look that seemed to solicit the listeners’ indulgence. The Alsatian, who had come closer, put his hand to his gray hat. “If the man from Pourgeois is in trouble, I will tuck in the poet,” he said with a kind smile that recalled the grimace of a death’s head. “Well! It’s easy to find,” said Father Blanchet. “But, sir… does he know the house of Madame la Baronne?” asked the doctor, examining the Jew through his glasses. “I will, I will,” continued the latter, who tried to give even more affability to his smile, “the aupergist will tell me.” “I fear that this is an abuse of your kindness?” “Say everything, say everything, my Lord, I will at the same time embroider my services to the parish. I buy the fine wines, my Lord, and the porcelain , and the glass things in gristal; give me the porcelain, it will help me to do my business. ” “Come now, that removes my scruples,” said the doctor, “and since the German is so kind… ” “Ah! My Lord has noticed that I am a German?” interrupted the thin man with an air of wonder. “So he noticed? Because I I’m deep in my guts… –Yes, and a little bit in the accent too. –Look!… I have an accent, resumed the Jew, who looked at everyone with smiling surprise, and I’m noticing myself, barole your honor! but, no matter, I’ll tuck in the poet. –I urge you to hurry then, observed the doctor, because later the gardener would have left, and perhaps they wouldn’t let you in. –I’m barging, I’m barging, cried the Alsatian. And in three strides he was out of the inn, while for his part M. Vorel mounted his horse and took the road to the Vivier. As for the Parisian, he had approached the Rageur, who, at a sign, had followed him, and both disappeared towards the pond. About an hour later, two men were crouching behind one of the hedges that border the path leading from the first houses of the suburb to the upper part of the town. One of them had his neck stretched out and his eye fixed on the middle of the road, which the moon was beginning to light up, while the other, leaning back in a nonchalant pose, seemed half asleep. Suddenly the first straightened up, listened, bent his head to the right and left to see better, and made a sort of rhythmic stammering which, among the suburbanites of Paris, replaces the whistle of a call. The response was not long in coming, and, almost at the same instant, a shadow appeared on the luminous space of the path and advanced towards the place where the two companions were hiding. “Is that really you, Moser?” asked the Parisian who had risen. “It’s me!” replied the Alsatian. “Are you alone?” “Here is the Rage. ” “At this hour, can’t we be heard? ” “No; but speak quickly, is there anything? ” “There are things, there are things,” resumed Moser, whose round blue eyes shone with a singular vivacity. “You went into the hut? ” “Yes, it was the servant who hurt me. ” “And you gave her the box? ” “So quick, I said I was going to barter for the parishioner. They made me go upstairs and left me in a stupid drawing-room where there is a window that looks out onto the flowerbed; so, to keep myself busy, I had to unscrew the handle of the berth. ” “You couldn’t do it? ” “The foil!” said the Alsatian, triumphantly showing a piece of iron that he kept hidden in his sleeve; A grochet can split… –But have you had time to examine the inside a bit? –A lot, a lot. First of all, when they took me to the parish, I went through three rooms, oh! but rooms so poorly furnished!… What a pity, Barisien, that they don’t want to take the furniture away! –Finish it then. –Finally, I gave the poet to the parish; she looks very ill, the poor thing! –And after? –Afterwards, I asked her if she didn’t have some fine labins to split. –Ah! damned Jew, said the Parisian, laughing in spite of himself, on the day of judgment he’ll offer to buy the Eternal Father his old breeches! –It was wrong, Jacques, Moser continued seriously, it amazed me, the air of making my mark. –What did the Baroness answer you? “She answered me: No. ” “And you came out again? ” “Yes, but I was careful to slip out of the box to make even more noise. ” “So you’ll be able to recognize yourself inside? ” “Very well. ” “But to get into the flowerbed? ” “To get into the flowerbed, that’s easy, I’ll have you explain that.” Moser began a sort of topographical description which proved a singularly trained intelligence in this kind of observation. He thought that all three of them would first have to cross the boundary wall, and that once they reached the flowerbed, the Rage, who was the most agile, would reach the window of the small drawing-room whose shutter could no longer be closed, enter the house and open the door for them. The Parisian turned to his companion who had until then remained stretched out on the grass and had listened to everything without saying anything. “It seems to me that Monsieur Jérusalem has understood the matter well,” he said. observe, what do you say, old man, does it suit you? “No,” replied the Rage, without moving. “Why not? ” “Because once we’re in the shack, you’ll want to shut up the women. ” “Come on, are you going to do it again?” said Jacques, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s pathetic, on my word of honor: a rogue who only owns his vermin and who meddles in having nerves! ” “Well! If it’s my idea,” continued the Rage, sitting up , “am I not free, by any chance? ” “No, you’re not free!” cried the Parisian, “for now you know the plot we’ve set up. ” “Well? ” “Well!… you can talk. ” The Rage sat up so abruptly that Jacques recoiled. “Tell me that again,” he said, looking fixedly at the Parisian; I didn’t hear clearly. “It’s clear, though,” resumed Jacques, who was evidently hesitating to express his distrust a second time, “a matter should only be known to those who are involved in it, and if you’re a fool, the best thing would be to leave everything behind. ” “No, no,” interrupted Moser sharply, “I’m not going to leave it behind ! The matter is too serious; I’d rather go alone. Tell the doctor’s words: he said there was enough to enrich several… good people; I’d be proud to be rich myself. ” “Well, he thinks he’s the only one,” murmured the Angry One, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Well, if you too are going to have money, you’ll have to do it,” resumed Moser; “it’s a big deal; after that, you’ll have to withdraw from the business.” “Very well,” said the Rageful One abruptly, “I’ll be there, but on one condition. ” “What is it? ” “That you won’t play with the knife. The house is isolated enough that we needn’t fear being surprised. ” “But if the women wake up and want to scream? ” “Then I’ll take care of gagging them. ” “It can be done,” said the Jew; “but it requires more begging. ” “Is it agreed then?” asked the Rageful One. “It’s agreed.” Thus agreed, the three companions headed towards the Green House; but it was still too early for them to begin work; so they reached a hillock that rose on the other side of the road and from where the facade of the house could be clearly seen over the boundary wall. All three sat there, hidden by the undergrowth, and waited impatiently, their eyes fixed on their prey. The window curtains had remained open, so that the lighted apartment appeared to them, across the road, like a theater diminished by distance, and on which a sort of pantomime of private life was being played out. They followed the nimble movements of the young servant, and those more languid of the baroness. They saw them both hurrying around the child, carrying her in their arms, and trying to lull her to sleep. But the arrival of night had redoubled Honorine’s discomfort, whose plaintive cries reached the three companions. The pain seemed to subside from time to time only to soon flare up again. Midnight struck on the distant clock, and the two women continued in vain to rock the little girl. “He won’t finish, that devil’s miscarriage!” murmured the Parisian, at the end of his tether. “I could have his neck in my hand!” added the Jew, closing his long, skeletal fingers with a ferocious expression. “He can keep them like that, standing until tomorrow! ” “And it’s impossible to get in, they’re so frayed; they ‘d hear us. ” “Don’t be so angry,” said the Angerer; “it’s about to end.
” The cries had, in fact, ceased, and the nurse soon left the room with the sleeping child. The Baroness, left alone, approached the window and remained for some time with her forehead pressed against the panes. At the distance at which she stood, it was impossible to distinguish her features; but her attitude revealed such weakness that the Angerer nodded his head with a vague expression of pity. “She looks like a dead woman,” he said in a low voice. “That’s not enough, the air,” Jacques murmured between his teeth. “Is she going to stay there all night now? ” “No,” Moser observed; “she’s making a noise… it’s a sign! When women make a noise, it’s because they want to sleep.” The Baroness had just knelt down. After a rather long prayer, she got up with an effort, called the nurse to close the shutters, and the two of them disappeared, taking the lamps with them. The facade remained in complete darkness. The Parisian and his two friends waited in silence for quite a long time; finally, when half-past one struck, all three got up slowly, and, after making sure that the road was deserted, they climbed the gate and arrived at the foot of the steps. Moser then pointed out to the Rage the window of the small living room, which he reached without too much difficulty, and whose shutter, not properly closed, gave way almost immediately; a pane, carefully broken, allowed him to open the window. “Are you there?” asked Jacques in a low voice. “Yes,” replied the Rage. “At Bresent, the brimstone turns to the left to find the stairs,” murmured Moser. The Rage said nothing, but disappeared into the apartment. Jacques leaned over to the Jew’s ear. “Get your knife ready,” he murmured. “Why?” asked Moser. “To serve the women if they wake up. ” “But the Rage? ” “He’ll have to be quiet when it’s done. ” “That’s true,” said the Alsatian, taking a dagger-knife from his trouser pocket and opening it; that way you won’t have to worry about anything.
Both of them placed themselves near the door and waited; but a long time passed without their companion reappearing. “Why doesn’t the other one come down?” asked the astonished and worried Jew. “Perhaps he has trouble recognizing himself in there,” said the Parisian. “If you could have gone up in his place, it would have gone faster. ” “Wait, I’m here to find something.” Moser advanced towards the object he had seen in the shadows; it was a ladder leaning against the wall by the gardener. Jacques helped him carry it under the window previously opened by their companion, and, after leaning it against it, the two of them climbed slowly. They had not gone halfway up the ladder when a cry was heard from inside. “We’ve been discovered,” said the Alsatian, who stopped short. A second cry, then a third, rang out. “The knives! The knives!” repeated the Parisian, forcing Moser to advance. The latter understood and jumped into the apartment. A door that he recognized as that of the room where the baroness had received him was open and lit: it was from there that the cries were coming. Jacques and he ran there; but the room was empty, the bed unmade and the child’s cradle overturned. They had stopped, stupefied and knife in hand, on the threshold, when the Rageur, his features distraught, appeared at a second entrance; at the sight of them, he recoiled abruptly and disappeared with a cry. “Well! what’s the matter with him?” cried the Parisian. “We’ve hurt him,” replied Moser. “He didn’t recognize us, then? ” “It’s impossible.”
Both ran to the door through which their companion had just escaped and tried to open it; but it was locked. “He pulled the iron,” said the Jew. “Listen,” interrupted Jacques. A murmur of voices could be heard, among which stood out that of the Rage, supplicating and bewildered. “What on earth is going on here?” asked Moser. “We must break down the door!” said the Parisian, whose impatience and fear had robbed him of all prudence. And he began to shake the lock with a sort of fury. A cry of terror rose in the next room. “Don’t be afraid, Madame la Baronne,” repeated the Rage distinctly. ” Anyone who tries to get to you is dead!” Jacques and Moser moved back. “So he’s definitely mad?” stammered the latter, astonished. “And yet it’s his voice,” continued the Parisian, trying in vain to understand. And shaking the door again, he began to call the Rageur. No one answered him; but the murmur of voices began again on the other side. The two disconcerted brigands looked at each other. “The scoundrel has sold us out!” cried Jacques with a gesture of disappointment full of rage. “So he was going to pardon her?” added the Jew, whose astonishment was, so to speak, paralyzing his anger. “But why then let us die? ” “Do I know?… To deliver us up, perhaps…” He had hardly finished when repeated knocks sounded at the large exterior door. They both rushed into the small drawing-room and ran to the window; a post-chaise had just stopped in front of the entrance. They quickly climbed the balcony to return to the garden; as they set foot on the first rungs of the ladder, the cry of ” Thief!” was heard in the street; they had been seen by the servant busy undoing the tarpaulin of the traveling carriage. Frightened, they swayed for a moment, then finally decided to go down; but their delay had allowed the servant to climb over the boundary wall with one of the passengers in the post-chaise. The Jew and the Parisian found them both at the bottom of the window, pistols in hand.
Realizing that the struggle was useless, they threw away the knives with which they were armed, and allowed themselves to be seized without resistance. Chapter 3. The Parents. The post-chaise, which had arrived so opportunely at the Maison-Verte, was bringing Madame de Luxeuil and Doctor Darcy there. Both found the Baroness deprived of feeling. The nurse, running to her, half-dressed, tried to bring her to her senses. She told the Countess that her mistress, wishing to watch over her daughter herself , had sent her away to get some rest. Awakened a short time later by screams, she had rushed, despite her terror, to the Baroness’s room, where she found her unconscious at the feet of a man in a smock. But the sound of the Countess’s and the doctor’s footsteps had made the latter flee without her being able to say what had become of him. While Madame de Luxeuil listened to these explanations, interspersed with plaintive exclamations about the fright she had just experienced and the danger she had almost run, Mr. Darcy was busy bringing the sick woman back to life. She finally opened her eyes and stammered her daughter’s name. The doctor had her presented to him. At the sight of the child asleep on her nurse’s breast, the Baroness seemed to revive; She made an effort, raised her head; and in this movement, her eyes met the Countess’s. She stretched out her hands with a weak cry and pronouncing her sister’s name. “She recognizes me,” said Madame de Luxeuil, who bent down to embrace her; “poor darling! In what a state we find you! Without us you would have been murdered. ” The Baroness clasped Madame de Luxeuil in her arms without responding other than with convulsive sobs. “Come, calm down,” said the Countess, giving her a few caresses which seemed dictated less by tenderness than by the desire to put an end to this crisis of expansion; “don’t hold me like that, you’ll hurt yourself. There is no longer any danger; be calm, the doctor will take care of you and cure you.” She accompanied these words with a kiss which she brushed against the sick woman’s forehead, then straightened up, smoothing her dress and running her fingers through the curls of her hair. Despite her suffering, the Baroness was, no doubt, struck by this indifferent lightness, for she looked at her sister, crossed her hands and turned her head with an expression of painful disappointment. Madame de Luxeuil took no notice of this: mobile and disjointed, like all unoccupied minds, she began to wander her eyes around her, and stood up to look at herself in a mirror placed opposite the alcove. The Countess was one of those women of the world incapable of affection, who accept family feelings like the rest of the inheritance, subject to inventory. As long as she found pleasure or profit in them, she showed herself benevolent, if not affectionate; but as soon as the bond became a burden to her, she broke it without hesitation or remorse. The friendship which united her to the Baroness thus resembled those Leonese societies, where one of the partners contributes everything and the other alone benefits. Such was, moreover, the naivety of her egoism that it was forgiven her; for deprived of moral sense, most people of the world recognize vice only by the efforts it makes to hide itself; the one who shows himself seems to them, for that alone, excusable. Also, Madame de Luxeuil was considered above all frank and natural. However, those who knew her better claimed that this naturalness and frankness were only a depth of insensitivity, and that, to serve her interests, everything would be not only possible, but easy. Although she was generally found to be witty, her shameless personality sometimes gave her the appearance of brutal stupidity. To see far and completely, one needs a heart besides intelligence; but Madame de Luxeuil’s heart had no eyes, and like the blind, it knew nothing outside itself. Apparent resemblances had served as a link between the Countess and Mr. Darcy. The latter belonged, like her, to the school of those who declare that one does not have too much of oneself to concern oneself, and who proclaim personal interest the great law of human societies. Only Mr. Darcy’s selfishness recalled those distant lands over which the ancient kings of Spain claimed to be sovereign, and which did not exist; he gloried in them without profiting from them. Always ready to forget himself for others, exploited by his friends, despoiled by rogues, he masked his actions with his words, called his generosity carelessness, his compassion calculation, his devotion activity, and thus reassured his conscience by slandering himself. This pretended selfishness was not, moreover, his only mania: he affected, moreover, an implacable hatred for the Catholic religion and for its priests. At the mere sight of them, one saw his eye round, his lips tighten, his chin sink into his cravat and his whole person assume a fierce attitude. He had made of this repugnance a sort of sixth sense: he recognized the approach of the priest as it has been said that certain animals recognized the presence of the serpent. According to him, Catholicism alone had produced all the evils of humanity. It was Catholicism itself that had taken away from men the earthly paradise; without it, crimes would have been ignored, the most ferocious instincts softened, and one would have seen, as in the time of the golden age, tigers grazing the grass beside the heifers. He never failed, as one might think, to support his thesis, to recall the series of cruelties and vices which are, in the great history of the Church, like the rubble and filth that soil the surroundings of our most sublime monuments. He knew exactly how many bastards the popes had had, and how many innocents the Inquisition had burned. This anti-Catholic monomania, openly manifested while the Restoration government was striving with all its might for the reconstitution of the throne and the altar, had done much less harm than one might have thought to the scientific career of Doctor Darcy. It had even contributed to giving him a physiognomy, which is, in all things, the first condition of success. He was called the atheist doctor, and this name, far from being a scarecrow, was almost a recommendation. The most fervent devotees wanted to see him in order to convert him; the most curious, only to know what an atheist looked like. It was a reason to talk about him in the best societies. thinking, to deplore that such a great talent had allowed himself to be drawn into the abyss opened by philosophy, and to seek the means to tear him away from it. The doctor’s impiety thus became a sort of megaphone for his reputation, and served to enlarge it. We have said how his care had succeeded in reviving the baroness. As soon as he judged her to be able to speak, he asked her a few questions which concealed, under their benevolent form, the doctor’s preoccupation ; but at the very moment when the patient was about to answer, M. Vorel entered, led by the nurse. He had just arrived from Le Vivier and had just learned of the events of the night , by which he seemed very upset. His sister-in-law made an effort to hold out her hand and introduce him to M. Darcy, who welcomed him kindly; As for the Countess, she replied briefly to his greeting and compliments, like one who suffers from being forced into politeness, and asked permission to withdraw while the two physicians examined the patient together. Their consultation lasted a long time. When they joined Madame de Luxeuil in the drawing-room, both looked troubled. “Ah! my God, what is it?” cried the Countess, looking at Mr. Darcy. “Bad news,” he replied, with the affectation of harshness of people who suffer from distressing you and do not want to appear so. “Do you think my sister is very ill? ” “Dying!” Madame de Luxeuil, who foresaw the reply, uttered a prepared cry, fell into an armchair which she had noticed beforehand, and threw back her head, as if she were about to faint ; but Mr. Darcy’s experienced gaze recognized at once that there was nothing to fear. “Come now, fair lady,” he said, taking one of her hands and striking it absentmindedly, as if it were a question of dispelling a theatrical faint, “be reasonable; you yourself foresaw this misfortune. ” “Madame doubtless did not suppose it so imminent,” observed M. Vorel in his most seductive voice, “and you announced it to her so abruptly. ” “Dying!” resumed Madame de Luxeuil, clasping her hands, and with the uncertainty of an actress rehearsing a line to give herself time to prepare for its effect. “If you were to make Madame la Comtesse smell some salts,” said Vorel, offering his colleague a bottle. He took it with a careless air and offered it to Madame de Luxeuil, who accepted it to give herself some composure. “And there is no more hope?” she asked; “no more hope?” The Parisian doctor shook his head. “Consumption, complicated by a heart condition,” he said. Madame de Luxeuil covered her face with her handkerchief to hide the tears she was not shedding. “Just yesterday, when I left her, her condition was far from being so alarming,” said M. Vorel sadly; “but the terrible emotion of this night hastened the progress of the disease. ” “And now there is nothing to be done,” added M. Darcy with an abruptness whose harshness hid a sort of sensitivity. “Poor sister,” murmured Bourgueil’s doctor, “to succumb so young! When her daughter needed his care so much! ” M. Darcy, who had begun to pace the drawing-room, stopped. “In fact, there is a child,” he said; “the baroness may have measures to take in her interests.” No one answered. “The patient must be informed of her position,” the doctor continued firmly. “Think of it!” cried Madame de Luxeuil; that would be killing her. “First of all, one does not kill a dead person,” resumed Mr. Darcy, with his implacable logic, “and it is as well to say that the Baroness is no longer alive, her hours are numbered; then, it is a duty for us, Madame, a rigorous duty. We are there to warn the patient when we cannot cure him; not to do so is a betrayal, a cowardice, for it is never him we wish to spare, but ourselves. ” “But think, doctor, of the terrible effect of such an announcement!” “Why then? What, after all, is so fearful about this transformation called death? It was the priests who surrounded her with hideous phantoms, with threatening visions. By dint of lies, they succeeded in making this passage between two states a sort of toll bridge from which they receive all the benefits. But, whatever the case, the Baroness must be warned; she may have arrangements to make, and death must not take her by surprise. ” “But who will dare to warn her?” “Me, if necessary. ” “You, doctor? ” “Why not? Your sister has wit, I will prove to her the stupidity of all the superstitions with which she has been terrified, and, when she knows that there is nothing after burial, and that we are simply an aggregation of molecules changing form, she will die as peacefully as if she were falling asleep.” “Pardon,” Mr. Vorel interrupted gently, “but I doubt that the Baroness is in a position to follow the reasoning of my learned colleague; it would, moreover, unnecessarily disturb her last moments. If it is necessary that she be warned, I will resign myself to this painful mission. ” “Very well,” said Mr. Darcy; “it is more appropriate that the warning come from you. While you attend to this matter, I will make some inquiries about the road leading to Norsauf. Will you allow me, Countess?” Madame de Luxeuil nodded her consent, and the doctor left. His departure was followed by a rather long silence. Mr. Vorel and the Countess evidently desired an explanation; but both felt equally embarrassed at beginning it; the Countess finally decided to speak. “I cannot yet believe in the necessity of the dreadful revelation advised by the doctor,” she said, “and, whatever the danger, I persist in attaching more importance to the patient’s rest than to her final arrangements. ” “Especially since they have already been made,” added M. Vorel; “I did not think it necessary to explain myself in this regard to M. Darcy; but with the Countess, it is another matter. ” “What! My sister made a will?” asked Madame de Luxeuil, visibly worried; “and… you doubtless know… what it contains? ” “I have reason to believe that it provides for the guardianship of the Countess’s child. ” “But… the choice of the persons charged with this guardianship… you know it? ” “I only know that it was made outside the family. ” “What do you say? My sister would entrust her daughter to strangers! ” “Such is her will.” Madame de Luxeuil rose. “Is that really true?” she cried. “One would have dared!… But it is an insult to all relatives, Monsieur! ” “Indeed,” said M. Vorel, who cast a dully scrutinizing glance at his interlocutor; “it seems that M. le Comte de Luxeuil would have had more rights than any other… ” “I am not speaking for us,” resumed Madame de Luxeuil; “these guardianships are always painful… and difficult… But it seems to me that there are conventions from which one cannot free oneself. Introducing strangers into family affairs; exposing oneself to lawsuits… this is at least singular conduct on the part of my sister… ” “One must remember,” observed the doctor in a conciliatory tone, “that the Baroness has been ill for a long time, and that in her position one does not always judge things so soundly. ” The Countess raised her head. “That is to say, according to you, my sister does not enjoy all the freedom of her mind,” she said quickly. “Eh! eh! Who knows?” replied M. Vorel, bending his shoulders; “any prolonged illness necessarily leads to a weakening of the brain. ” “But, in that case, should we not come to the aid of a failing intelligence, and defend it against its own errors?” The doctor looked at Madame de Luxeuil over his blue spectacles, and a flash of joy crossed his features. “That would doubtless be a happy thing,” he said; “and, in the interest of the child, it would be desirable that this will be regarded… as useless. “That is obvious,” the Countess continued; “but once known, it will be maintained, perhaps… justice is so bizarre. In any case, it would become the occasion of an unfortunate debate. If this will is truly judged prejudicial to the child… by those who are sincerely interested in it… like you and me, Monsieur… why… make it known? ” “That is right,” replied Vorel good-naturedly; “it could be regarded as null and void… or even… suppressed. ” “In Honorine’s interest!” added the Countess hastily. “That is right,” the doctor continued; “speak to the Baroness about it, Madame, or, if you are afraid of tiring her… procure the little key she wears hanging from her neck… it opens the ebony desk, and that is where all the important papers are kept.” Madame de Luxeuil took a step toward her sister’s room. “I only fear a difficulty,” continued Vorel, who had picked up his riding crop and hat. “A difficulty?” said the Countess. “Doctor Darcy will return, convinced that I have made the sick woman aware of her situation: he will repeat to her everything he repeated to us just now, and the Baroness, thus brought back to sad thoughts, will be able to make new arrangements… call a notary, perhaps! ” “Ah! you are right!” cried Madame de Luxeuil. “I had forgotten the doctor: he is the man to bring all the notaries of Château-Lavallière here!… he has so little sensitivity!… My God! but how can we do it, then? ” “I see no way… unless the Countess can send him away. ” Madame de Luxeuil seemed struck. “Wait then,” she said, “he has someone to see in the neighborhood… But he was not due to go there until tomorrow; how can we persuade him to leave at once? ” “Is that all?” asked M. Vorel, smiling. “If the Countess wishes it, I will see to it. ” “You, and in what manner, sir? ” “The Countess will judge; here is the doctor.” The doctor seemed astonished to find M. Vorel in the drawing-room. “I thought my colleague was with the Baroness,” he said, “and busy informing her of his situation. ” “This trouble is now useless, sir,” replied Vorel gravely ; “the Baroness herself has understood that all hope is lost. ” “You have seen her then? ” “She has just sent for a priest. ” M. Darcy started. “She too?” he cried. “What! Baroness Louis! Well! I had a better opinion of her. Poor woman!” They will prepare her for heaven according to the method recommended by Pascal, by stupefying her. “Ah! No impiety at such a moment, doctor,” interrupted Madame de Luxeuil. “You are right,” continued Darcy, bowing; “illness is a royalty, and never has royalty been required to have common sense. Therefore, I will make no objection to the Baroness. ” “She expects more from you, Monsieur,” continued Vorel; “she hopes that you will not refuse to assist her in this last ordeal. ” “How? ” “She wishes you to be there… with her confessor. ” Darcy gave a start. “Me!” he cried. “It is a sick idea,” continued Vorel; “she assures us that your presence will give her more calm… resolution; that she will accomplish her last religious duties with less trembling. “That is to say, I would encourage her to give herself up to the priests?” interrupted the doctor with a sort of indignation. “But then she doesn’t know me, sir? She is then ignorant of my contempt for the parades of superstition? ” “Your opinions will remain free,” observed Bourgueil’s doctor . ” It is only a matter of being present. For the spectators, everything is limited to a sign of the cross and a genuflection. ” Mr. Darcy, who was walking around the room, stopped short. “A genuflection!… a sign of the cross!…” he repeated, with surprise mingled with anger; “and you think that I will submit to such Such conditions, sir? That I will participate in shameful mummery ?… “Doctor!” interrupted the scandalized countess. “Shameful, Madame!” he insisted warmly; “I, Jean-François Darcy, kneeling before a cassock!… but the proposal alone is an insult! ” “Pardon,” said M. Vorel, with a disconcerted air; “I can assure you that my intention… ” “It is not your intention, sir, but the substance,” Darcy continued briskly. “Have you considered what my friends would say in Paris if I consented? I would be dishonored, sir!… and the clergy! What a triumph for them! A known, avowed, licensed atheist, who had made the sign of the cross!!! After that, all that would remain for me would be to obtain absolution and take communion!” No, sir, no, the Baroness would be my own mother, my sister, my daughter, and I would refuse! “My God! What can I do then?” said M. Vorel in a sorrowful and disappointed tone. “My sister had counted so much on the doctor’s presence! I fear that she will see, in his refusal, a sort of abandonment… ” “It is certain,” observed the Countess, “that the motives for this refusal are so strange… ” “The best thing,” continued Vorel, undecided, “would perhaps be to suppose that M. Darcy has left. ” “Parbleu! Never mind,” interrupted the doctor, “I can send for horses. ” Bourgueil’s doctor and the Countess exchanged a glance; M. Darcy had gone to take his cane and hat from the console. “You are not speaking seriously,” said the Countess, who wanted to hasten the departure by appearing to oppose it; “it is impossible that you should leave us at such a moment.” “On the contrary, the moment could not be better chosen, fair lady,” replied Darcy. “When the priests come, the doctors have nothing more to do. ” “But your care?” “Are unfortunately useless. Monsieur Vorel, moreover, remains with you: please do not detain me; if I were to remain and chance brought me into contact with your bearers of extreme unction, I would be capable of committing some enormity. Out of friendship, out of prudence, let me go. ” Madame de Luxeuil made a few more objections, then finally seemed to give in; Monsieur Darcy took leave of her, promising to return the day after tomorrow, and left accompanied by Bourgueil’s physician. Left alone, the countess hastened to return to the sick woman. She found her given over to a restless drowsiness that made her unaware of everything that was happening around her. Meanwhile, at the foot of the bed, the child was playing, laughing and revived, while the young nurse sat by the bedside. Madame de Luxeuil dismissed the latter and took her place beside the sick woman. The care she took to avoid any painful sensation had until then kept her away from these gloomy sights, and it was the first time she had found herself in the presence of a dying woman. But this sight, which usually penetrates souls with an involuntary tenderness, excited in her only a repulsion mixed with fear. Instead of finding in it an emotion that would more vividly awaken her friendship for her sister, she found only a funereal warning that made her turn inward. This heart, cold to everyone, had always been, for the baroness, insensitive and hostile. This hostility dated from childhood. Left orphans almost in the cradle, the two sisters had been raised separately by two mortally estranged aunts who had endeavored to leave them the legacy of their hatred. The more tender and generous Baroness had partly escaped this fatal influence; but Madame de Luxeuil had accepted without resistance all the prejudices which were to distance her from her sister. Debates of interest and jealousy came later to poison these dispositions even more. Confined to the ranks of that portion of the nobility which had remained hostile to the Empire, because the Empire had not cared for her, the Countess had seen the elevation of her sister with a spite poorly disguised under the appearance of disdain. Her aversion had thus slowly increased with all the sufferings of her pride and her envy. The conversation between the Baroness and the doctor from Bourgueil has already made known to the reader how this aversion had revealed itself on several occasions, by wrongs always renewed on the one hand, and always forgiven on the other. The confidence that M. Vorel had just made to her had further embittered the Countess against her sister. The announced will disappointed too many hopes for her not to see it as an insult. Also, after the first sensation of shock of which we have spoken, she cast a look at the dying woman which expressed more resentment than pity. However, this look suddenly stopped on a ribbon, at the end of which a small key, of precious work, was suspended. Madame de Luxeuil turned her eyes toward the ebony writing desk designated by M. Vorel, in order to judge whether it was indeed the key that would open it, then, rising cautiously, she gently put out her hand and grasped the ribbon. At that moment, the sick woman made a movement, half-opened her eyes, and, seeing the Countess whose face was close to hers, she threw an arm over her shoulder with a plaintive cry. There was a moment full of anguish for Madame de Luxeuil. With her head half-bent, she saw the child, who was smiling at her, at the foot of the bed, and felt her sister’s hand brushing her cheek. Despite her insensibility, she stopped, hesitant and troubled; but soon the sick woman’s fingers became motionless again. The hand slid from her shoulder onto the bed, and her eyes closed. She waited a moment, then, skillfully untying the ribbon, removed the key, let fall the curtain of the alcove, ran to the writing desk and opened it. Most of the compartments were filled with carefully arranged letters, or notes written by the Baroness. Some contained ribbon bows, rings, withered flowers, mysterious treasures whose value only the dying woman could have said. In the middle, and in the largest compartment, were business papers. It was there that, after a rather long search, Madame de Luxeuil discovered a sealed packet on which was written: MY LAST WISHES. She seized it quickly, looked around her, broke open the envelope and unfolded the paper it contained. It was the will announced by M. Vorel. The Countess quickly read it over, and found all the provisions in it in accordance with what the latter had told her. She crumpled the paper angrily and looked toward the hearth; but, as she was about to close the writing-desk, she stopped, undecided. Her eye scanned it once more, as if she feared it contained a second copy of the document she was holding. Bending over to see better, she took each paper in turn, which she examined quickly, when a small casket of shagreen, hidden at the bottom of the last compartment, suddenly caught her eye; she drew it toward her, activated the spring, and started. It was the portrait of the Duke of Saint-Alofe! Beneath the miniature were several letters from him and some replies from the Baroness. A flash of triumph lit up Madame de Luxeuil’s features. This proof, so long desired and without which her accusations against her sister might have been dismissed as slander, she finally had it, written in the very hand of the accused! The joy of such a discovery made her forget everything else; She suddenly overturned the casket, scattered the letters on the writing-desk, opened the first one and began to read! A stifled exclamation interrupted her. She turned around; the dying woman had raised the curtain of the alcove and was looking at her! With a quick and instinctive movement, the Countess moved away from the writing-desk, trying to hide the papers she was holding; but her sister had risen with a violent effort. “I saw… I saw!” she stammered. “What then?” asked Madame de Luxeuil, troubled. “The will!… it’s him… I recognized it… you took it there… To me! Someone!… help! ” The sick woman’s voice had an accent of terror and had risen; her hand caught the bell-cord, which she pulled violently. “What are you doing?” cried Madame de Luxeuil, rushing toward the alcove. “This paper,” repeated the baroness, who tried to seize her sister’s arm , “give it back to me, I want it!” The countess seemed to hesitate for a moment; but suddenly she freed herself, ran to the hearth, and threw the will into the flames. The dying woman gave a cry and tried to throw herself out of bed; but her strength failed her. For a few moments there was a frightful struggle to be seen between her will and her weakness: her head raised, her arms outstretched, and seeking a point of support in the void, her body twisted in a supreme effort, she raised herself three times halfway, but finally, exhausted, she let herself fall back on her pillow, her head thrown back, her two hands over her eyes, and uttering a desperate moan. At that moment, Madame de Luxeuil heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and recognized the voice of the young nurse. Fearing that she had heard her mistress’s call, she ran to meet her to prevent her from entering, and the sick woman found herself alone again with her daughter.
For a few minutes everything remained motionless and silent around her. Only the sound of the wind roaring in the corridors of the isolated house could be heard, and the hurried breathing of the dying woman, interrupted by sobs; but finally a slight noise resounded; The small door of the study, placed near the alcove, opened slowly and let pass the pale head of the Rage. He first looked around him, crossed the room cautiously, and, after locking the other two doors, he returned to the sick woman’s bed and knelt by the head. Chapter 4. Guardianship. When an hour later Madame de Luxeuil returned with Monsieur Vorel, they both found the sick woman plunged into a state of despondency that no longer allowed her to move or speak. Her breath was short and whistling, her eyes glazed, her lips convulsively agitated. Bourgueil’s doctor knew these symptoms too well to be mistaken; he examined the sick woman for a few moments, checked her pulse and made a sign to Madame de Luxeuil. However harsh the Countess was, this sinister warning troubled her; she turned her head away and moved abruptly away from the alcove. An imperceptible smile then touched the doctor’s features, and his gaze returned to the dying woman. The sight of her agony seemed to excite in him some cruel curiosity; he followed the attacks with attentive insensitivity, counted the convulsions, and watched life slip away drop by drop like fleeing water. The child, leaning on her mother’s shoulder, played with her disheveled hair, and mingled with the death rattle her laughter and babbling. For a long time nothing was heard in the room but this double murmur, sinister and joyful. Finally, both gradually grew weaker and died almost at the same time. Madame de Luxeuil, who was standing near the window, turned around , seized, and quickly approached the alcove. The child had just fallen asleep on the lips of her dead mother, giving her a last kiss! The Countess allowed herself to be led by M. Vorel from the funeral home; but after the first moments of necessary affliction, she remembered her niece and asked to see her. The informed nurse brought Honorine. Madame de Luxeuil took the child in her arms and declared that she would never leave her again. “I only had one son,” she said, turning to the doctor with playful sensitivity, “now I will also have a daughter.” M. Vorel bowed. “I am sincerely touched, for my part, by the generous intentions of Madame la Comtesse,” he said; “unfortunately they may meet with some obstacles. “Obstacles!” repeated Madame de Luxeuil, astonished, “and which ones, sir?” “According to what Madame la Comtesse has done me the honor of confiding in me,” resumed the doctor, “the testamentary dispositions of our poor and dear baroness can be considered null and void. ” “Well? ” “Well! Madame la Comtesse, in that case the orphan will return under the common law. ” “But this law allows me, I suppose, to replace Honorine’s mother. ” “For affection, without a doubt, Madame la Comtesse; but for the administration of the property, it belongs to the guardian. ” “M. le Comt de Luxeuil will take the title, sir. ” “Pardon,” said Vorel deferentially; “but I would point out to Madame la Comtesse that this title is not taken; it is received from the family council. ” “Very well. Do you think he could refuse it to the Count? ” “I am not presuming anything; I am simply reminding you that it is up to this council to make a choice.” “And who could he choose, sir? Isn’t Honorine M. de Luxeuil’s niece? ” “Unquestionably, Madame la Comtesse, she is his niece… as she is mine.” Madame de Luxeuil made a movement and looked the doctor in the face. “What do you mean?” she asked. “I mean,” replied M. Vorel calmly, “that if the family demands it, I am ready to prove my attachment to the mother by serving as the daughter’s protector. ” The Countess could not suppress a cry of surprise. The doctor’s pretension was something so audacious that, at first, she hesitated to take it seriously. But M. Vorel’s air and accent left no room for doubt. “So,” she cried, “you intend to dispute the guardianship with us? ” “That is doubtless showing yourself very bold,” replied Vorel humbly; but I wish to prove that my devotion is in no way inferior to that of the Countess. The latter blushed with anger and made a violent gesture. “Ah! I understand,” she said in an indignant tone; “your confidences this morning were a trap; you only desired the suppression of the will in the interest of your own hopes, and, after having used me to remove the obstacle, you intend to achieve the goal alone. ” “I only intend to testify to my zeal,” Vorel observed calmly, “by offering to spare the Countess the burden of guardianship. ” “And what do you want to do, finally, with this guardianship, Monsieur?” asked Madame de Luxeuil, pushed to the limit. “That is a question that could also be addressed to the Countess,” the doctor observed gently. “Ah! I understand you,” the latter cried, exasperated; “the administration of this child’s property will allow you to increase your fortune.” “And Madame la Comtesse,” replied Vorel, “would prefer that it were used to repair hers? ” Madame de Luxeuil rose with a threatening eye and pale lips. “Be careful,” she said, her voice trembling with anger, “be careful what you say, Monsieur! I am not one of those who can be insulted with impunity… ” “So I have not thought of insulting Madame la Comtesse,” said Vorel, respectfully mocking; “she speaks, and I answer… ” “Let’s stop there,” interrupted Madame de Luxeuil haughtily; “further explanations are useless. Since they are trying to dispute my sister’s daughter with us, we will know how to assert our rights. ” “Madame la Comtesse will soon find the opportunity,” added the doctor, ” for the family council is to meet in a few days. ” “What family council, Monsieur?” –The one that the justice of the peace of Château-Lavallière must summon ex officio for the establishment of the guardianship. The Countess seemed astonished. –Is it possible! she cried, is it here that you will have the decision decided?… and by a council composed of people you know?… whose complaisance you are assured?… Ah! do not hope, Sir, that I will accept these deliberations. –Madame the Countess cannot think of stopping the course of the law, objected Vorel; the council will be formed, as required by Article 407, of six relatives or allies taken from the neighborhood, and its choice, whatever it may be, will remain unassailable. “I will prove the contrary,” said the Countess impetuously, “for I will attack it relentlessly and by all means. You wanted war, you will have it! Remember, Monsieur, that from today I am your enemy! ” “I will remember it,” said the doctor with a smiling gentleness. And humbly bowing to Madame de Luxeuil, he withdrew. But this affected moderation increased the Countess’s irritation, at the same time as her worries. Whatever her inexperience in business, she had understood that M. Vorel was supported by the Code, and a lawyer, whom she sent for, confirmed all her fears. The composition of the family council belonged to the justice of the peace alone, and the latter’s decision should be sovereign. It was therefore in this direction that the Countess had to direct all her attempts. Her title, her connections, her credit, gave her an authority which she tried to take advantage of. She visited all the members of the council in succession, using flattery and promises to win votes for the Count of Luxeuil. But M. Vorel followed her everywhere, and spared no effort to take them away. To the influence that his adversary held from birth, he opposed that which his profession gave him. For, in our time, the authority of the doctor has become as extensive as it is formidable. Obliged confidant of shameful, ridiculous or terrible secrets, advisor on the most intimate acts of domestic life, almost always holding in his hands the honor of families, he has constituted himself the true priest of this materialized society which has freed itself from the soul only to become a slave to the body. Most of Vorel’s future judges were his clients, and he held them all by the bonds of memory, prudence, or fear. He skillfully took advantage of this position to combat Madame de Luxeuil and secure the support he needed. However, when the day of the meeting arrived, he still had some doubts about the result of the deliberation that was about to take place. The members of the family council were all gathered in the large drawing room of the Maison Verte. Near one of the windows stood the doctor, whose anxious glances swept over the meeting, as if he wanted to divine the secret dispositions of each; a little further away sat the nurse with the orphan on her knees; finally, at her side stood Madame de Luxeuil in deep mourning, and displaying the most tender care for the child. The justice of the peace had opened the deliberation and successively given the floor to the Countess and to M. Vorel, who had asserted their rights. The vote had finally come to an end, and the result of the deliberation was about to be known, when the door burst open violently, revealing a man in a smock standing on the threshold: it was the Rageur. He first cast a quick glance over the assembly, then, boldly advancing, he cried out: “Which of you is the judge? ” “What do you want with him?” asked the latter, rising. The Rageur uncovered his hat. “Let what has just been done be destroyed,” he said; “for I bring an act which annuls everything.” And taking from his bosom a paper which he placed on the table placed before the council: “Read,” he added; “this is the will of Baroness Louis, written in her own hand and signed by her!” The cries uttered by the Countess and by M. Vorel were so spontaneous that they merged into a single cry. Both of them rose at the same time, ran to the judge, and bent over the paper he had just opened. It was indeed the dead woman’s handwriting! They looked at each other in mute amazement. The members of the council had also left their places and were surrounding the judge, whom they were all questioning at once; he interrupted them with a gesture; everyone fell silent, and he read the following: I write in haste, already frozen by death; but with all my reason and all my memory. This is my supreme will; I recommend its execution to all those who loved me, to the law and to God. I appoint as guardian to Honorine, my daughter, Duke Charles-Henri de Saint-Alofe, and, failing him, Mr. Councilor de Vercy. I recommend to both the preservation of what belongs to her and the defense of her rights. As for her education, I wish that it be entrusted to Mother Thérèse, Prioress of Tours. Finally, I leave to my daughter half of a ring that I have long worn, and I recommend her to the memory of the one who possesses the other half. Done at the Château La Vallière, this September 30, 1818. Baroness LOUIS, Née de Mézerais There was a fairly long pause after this reading. The Rage took advantage of this to approach the child and placed around his neck a ribbon from which hung half of an emerald-set ring. M. Vorel, who had been stunned for a moment, started at the sight. “Where did you get this ring?” he cried, advancing abruptly towards the Rage. “Who are you? How was this piece given to you?” “This piece was given to me by the one who wrote it,” replied the Rage firmly. “My name is Marc Avril, and I have the Baroness’s ring. ” “So you spoke to her? ” “Yes.
” “When? ” “A few moments before her death. ” The doctor looked at Madame de Luxeuil. “He’s lying!” she cried, “for if I had been there, I would have seen him.” Let this man tell how he was able to reach the dying woman without my knowledge. The Rage seemed embarrassed. “What does that matter to you?” he said. “Answer!” cried M. Vorel, struck by his confusion. “I want to know how you got in here? ” “Ah! I know,” interrupted the nurse who had just approached and had been looking at the Rage for a moment with terror. “Have you ever seen this man?” asked the doctor quickly. “Yes,” she continued, stepping back… “it’s him… I’m sure of it… ” “Who? ” “One of those who came a week ago… to slit our throats!” The Rage recoiled, turning pale, and wanted to rush towards the door; but M. Vorel had already closed it. At the same moment, all the arms advanced towards him, and after a short struggle, he was seized and bound. Chapter 5. Sixteen Years Later. Anyone who has tried the life of a tourist knows that travel never offers a continuity of aspects or impressions, but that it is composed of rare, scattered stations, often separated from one another by long spaces that cannot interest the mind or attract the eye. Creation seems to have, like art, museums where it gathers all its wonders, and outside of which one finds only monotony or emptiness. Between the sea with its wild beaches and the mountain with its Arcadian valleys, stretches the smooth, peaceful, green plain, where woods continue woods, where meadows follow meadows, and which must be crossed at the gallop of horses. Now, the novelist has, like the tourist, long intervals, which he must make the reader cross quickly. For him neither distance nor time exist. Like the rebellious angel who carried Christ up the mountain, he shows those who listen to him, not the humble countryside that unfolds at his feet, but all that he has been able to bring together of the tempting and the marvelous in the four winds. Disdainful of the slowness of reality, he speaks, and another horizon rises, and the young man has become an old man, and the child, transformed, appears crowned with strength and youth. We will take advantage of this last privilege to leap forward sixteen years, and present to our readers the orphan of the Green House, no longer puny and suffering, but a tall and beautiful young girl before whom the world will open. The last wishes of the baroness had been carried out; entrusted to the superior of Tours, Honorine grew up in the convent, without realizing that she lacked a family. This one, for its part, completely forgot her. By losing hope of guardianship, Madame de Luxeuil and M. Vorel had seemed to renounce all kinship ties. The former, having become a widow, no longer inquired about her niece, and the doctor, who had succeeded in reconciling with Mother Louis, went to live on the Motteux estate, from where he seemed to remain equally unaware of anything concerning the orphan. But the latter had found at the Sacré-Cœur something to compensate her for this abandonment. The superior had initially received her there with a passionate tenderness that was imperceptibly communicated to the other nuns. Usually devoted to the instruction of already grown-up young girls, these were giving their care to a child for the first time, and this novelty awakened in them the instincts of womanhood, dormant rather than stifled: with their other pupils, they were only teachers, with Honorine they became mothers. Thanks to her, each recluse knew something of those anxieties, those expectations, those shocks which are family life, and alone give flavor to joy. There was an interest and an emotion in their solitude. Also it was a question of who would have the best part of this spiritual maternity; all these souls, full of restrained expansions, besieged the nascent soul of the child to awaken sympathy and take date in its tenderness. Honorine, at first suffering, revived insensibly in the midst of this atmosphere of caresses, and, proud of their work, the nuns loved her more on seeing her revived. Her health, her joy, her beauty, all belonged to them; they made them their happiness and their glory, at the same time as their torment. Their whole existences hung, by the invisible thread of devotion, on this saved existence. So much self-denial could lead to softness, or encourage selfishness; Honorine’s happy nature saved her from this danger. She accepted the affection of those who served as her mother, with the simplicity of a heart capable of giving back what is given to it. Gay and charming, she became the joy of the convent after having been its solicitude. As she grew, it seemed to be animated by her youth; one would have said a rising sun whose rays, brighter each day, awaken everywhere the sleeping life. And her presence had not only been for these pious girls a cause of joy, but of improvement; for in this common affection had melted all those little bitternesses of unoccupied hearts. Each nun, henceforth, had a human interest, a visible goal, and her life was not confined solely to the enervating aspirations toward the unknown. They shared Honorine’s instruction, who received their lessons, so to speak without her knowledge, and without distinguishing between recreation and study. Gifted with one of those happy minds in which every sown seed germinates of its own accord, she knew neither the fatigue of work nor the anguish of reprimands, and reached the age of twelve almost without knowing tears. Around this time an event of little importance occurred, but which, in the peaceful and uniform life of the orphan, could not fail to leave a memory. The superior took on a new gardener. He was an old man with white hair, but whose robust appearance seemed to belie his age. From the first days, he distinguished Honorine among her companions, and took a singular affection for her. Every time the child appeared in the garden, he would stop his work to follow her with a look that seemed to soften; he recognized her voice and even her way of running behind the hedges; even when she was no longer there, he continued to take care of her, tending the little flowerbed that had been given to him. He spoke to her, moreover, only rarely and always to answer some question; his devotion was humble and mute like that of a dog. When he wanted to show the child some rare flower, cultivated for her, or some fruit picked for her, he would make a rhythmic whistle that she knew and that made her run to it. At first, people at the convent were a little surprised by this passionate preference, but such was everyone’s friendship for the child that they ended up finding it natural. As for Honorine, accustomed to the attentive attention of her governesses, she accepted that of Étienne with gratitude, but without surprise. She never passed near the old man without giving him a smile or a friendly greeting, and Étienne, who trembled at her voice, responded only with a gesture, a glance , at most with a trembling word that revealed I know not what mixture of anguish and joy. The convent garden formed only a small part of its enclosure. This also included orchards, a wood, and meadows, at the end of which was a fishpond deep enough to carry a boat. The nuns liked to embark there with a few chosen pupils and to go around the small pond to cut rushes and pick water lilies. One day, when Étienne was at the end of the orchard, where he was receiving orders from the prioress, cries of distress were heard near the fishpond. They both ran in fear and saw the capsized boat. The nun and a boarder were floating, almost engulfed in the reeds! Étienne dropped his jacket, his clogs, his apron, and rushed to their aid. After a few moments, both were on land; but hardly had the nun regained her senses than she looked around her and cried out in terror: “Honorine?” “Did you have her with you?” asked Étienne, turning pale. “Ah! Save her! Save her!” He heard no more, ran towards the pond, arms outstretched, leaped to the boat and disappeared beneath the water. The nuns who had rushed to the shore were crowding to the edge, sobbing. Three times Étienne came up alone, uttering cries of despair; three times he plunged back into the depths of the pond, with a sort of rage; finally, he reappeared, lifting Honorine in his arms, returned to the shore and placed her in the shade of the willows. The distraught nuns flocked around the lifeless child; and, after efforts that were long fruitless, a cry of joy rang out: she had moved… she was alive! At this cry, Étienne, who was kneeling beside her, his body bent, all his limbs trembling and his eyes wandering, clasped his hands with a dull moan of joy, and fainted. The doctor who had been sent for arrived fortunately. After reassuring the nuns, he urged them to take Honorine, completely revived, back to the convent, while he himself helped to carry the gardener to the little house he occupied at the end of the meadows. He soon returned, announcing that he had regained consciousness and was in no danger; but he asked for the superior, spoke to her alone, and that same evening it was learned, with astonishment, that Étienne, called and long entertained by her, had left the convent never to return. Honorine appeared seriously distressed by this departure and made vain attempts to ascertain the cause; all she could learn was that, judging it necessary, the superior had seen it with regret, and retained for the former gardener a deep feeling of gratitude. This adventure was the only one that crossed Honorine’s childhood; the following years passed without leaving her any other trace of their passage than the vague memory of an ever-renewed happiness. Supported by friendly hands, she passed, by an imperceptible slope, from the gaieties of early life to the enchantments of youth. We generally believe that convent education is sad, austere and full of prudishness; but, on this point as on many others, we are mistaken. Nowhere else, on the contrary, is life more enlivened by these small pleasures which are the daily bread of joy, nowhere do you have to fear less constraint, less severity. Reassured by isolation, mistresses can allow their pupils a freedom of expansion which could not be granted elsewhere without danger. Also, far from sinning by submission or timidity, these almost always tend to the opposite excess. On leaving these holy aviaries, where they have never lacked grain, security, space or sun, they soar into life like the carrier pigeon, curious to see, eager to feel, but suspecting neither hunger nor storm, nor hunters . Honorine’s character must have given her, more than any other, this perilous confidence. An open and tender soul, she participated in the life of all that lived; she needed to love all that could be loved. Attached by sympathy to every work of creation, she could not see the plant languish, she could not hear the animal complain; she wept while watching it cry. The kindness of others was as indispensable to her as air. Her affectionate smile sought a smile on everyone’s lips; a cold look made her anxious, a disgruntled gesture froze her. She could have been represented like those saints that the naive art of the Middle Ages has painted for us with outstretched arms and holding in their hands their burning hearts, symbols of ardent charity, but which, alas! always completes the crown of martyrdom! The first sorrow that affected Honorine was the departure of some of the nuns who had raised her. Whether their zeal was needed elsewhere, or whether, obeying the rule, they wanted to protect them from the attachments created by habit, they received the order to leave the convent of Tours to go to Paris. The separation was heartbreaking: religious duty imposed resignation in vain on those who were leaving; Honorine’s impetuous grief disconcerted all their resolutions. The farewells, twenty times finished and resumed, continued in tears until the moment when they had to tear themselves away from the arms of the orphan. The nuns left without hope of seeing her again, and being unable to arrange a meeting with her except on the other side of the grave! It was, for each of them, like a daughter dying, and for Honorine like a family dispersing. However, her first love, the most tender and dearest of her mothers, had not been taken from her; the superior remained. But happiness is like the most beautiful flowers: let the first leaf fall and soon each breeze carries a new one. Shortly after, the prioress fell into a languor that neither care nor remedies could dissipate, and to which she succumbed after a few months. Honorine’s despair inspired serious fears for a moment. It was the first blow to strike her helpless heart, and her pain was horrible; but if the novelty of the wound made it more stinging, it also made recovery more certain. Honorine was not exhausted by those long struggles which rob the will of its resilience and keep the soul in dejection, lacking the vitality to return to health. Armed with all her strength, she recovered from this first shock. A great change, which had occurred in her destiny, moreover diverted her grief and directed her concerns elsewhere. Madame de Luxeuil had been warned of what had just happened, and this unforeseen event reawakened in her forgotten plans. The part of the Baroness’s will which entrusted Honorine’s education to the Prioress of Tours was naturally annulled by her death, and the orphan’s fate was henceforth left to the decision of the Councillor of Vercy who, in the absence of the Duke of Saint-Alofe, had accepted guardianship. It was therefore to him that the Countess addressed herself, sending one of her devoted friends, the Marquis de Chanteaux. Although very young at the time of the Revolution, M. de Chanteaux had left France with the greater part of the nobility, and had involved in all the royalist intrigues of the time. He was one of the most active agents of this committee which fought the Republic by means of supposed proclamations and false assignats manufactured by a meeting of émigré priests, under the direction of a bishop. The Marquis had even taken part in this last operation, and had acquired a remarkable skill in imitating prints and counterfeiting writings. Returning to France under the Consulate, he had led an idle and irregular life there until the first return of the Bourbons. The
events of the Hundred Days brought him to the Vendée, where he took command of several bands of insurgents who distinguished themselves by the capture of several towns and the pillaging of stagecoaches; finally, the second restoration recognized his past and present services by granting him a place of gentleman in the chamber. The accident of July deprived him of this position, and since then he had kept himself apart among the sulkers of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. M. de Chanteaux, who combined the grand manners of the old nobility with the outmoded forms of imperial gallantry, could pass for a remarkable example of that fossil generation of which the upper chamber presents these days the most curious and the most complete exhibition. Fortunately, the mission with which he had been entrusted by the countess presented few difficulties. He had no difficulty in making M. de Vercy understand that the death of the prioress placed Honorine in a new situation, and that, destined to live outside the convent, the time had come for her to leave it. Now, no one could better than Madame de Luxeuil, given her title of aunt and her habits, facilitate the young girl’s entry into society; So M. de Vercy gratefully accepted the Countess’s proposal to take charge of his ward, and it was agreed that she would come and collect her from Tours, where the councilor was to go himself to officially hand her over. Everything happened as agreed. Madame de Luxeuil arrived on the appointed day, saw M. de Vercy, whom she delighted with her thoughtfulness, and went with him to the convent to look for her niece. The latter, who had been warned, was ready. Absence and death had depopulated the house where she had grown up; everything that had brought her joy was now only a source of regret. Those who had raised and cherished her had taken with them the sweet exchanges of emotion, the tender encouragement, the affectionate reprimands; henceforth the convent was empty, the family had disappeared! She therefore resigned herself to following the Countess without too much difficulty, driven on one side by the emptiness that had formed around her, attracted on the other by that attraction of change and the unknown, the illusion of early years. It was only at the moment of leaving that all her past rose up before her eyes, like a gentle phantom that placed itself before the world to keep her in solitude; but she pushed it away with her hand, and after casting, trembling, a last tearful glance at that roof under which she had exhausted all the pure joys of the beginning of life, she climbed into her aunt’s post-chaise and took the road to Paris with her. Chapter 6. The Forge des Buttes. Between Longjumeau and Arcueil there is an uncultivated plateau that the main road crosses for quite a long time, and which forms, with all the surrounding countryside, a contrast as sad as it is strange. You leave a watered, fertile, shady countryside, which you will find again , a little further on, and, between these two oases, stretches a sort of Sahara where everything is lacking at once. As far as your eyes can reach, you see only a parched earth on which creep a few yellowish heathers and which are torn by rocks whitened by moss. No trees, no habitation! Not even one of those flocks of thin, tawny sheep which graze the moors of Brittany or Sologne. Everything is abandoned and deserted. It is only after crossing half of this desolate solitude that you come across a hovel serving, at the same time, as a tavern and workshop for a blacksmith. It is known under the name of the Forge-aux-Buttes and is rather disreputable, even among the carters and peasants who frequent it, because of its position. Three of the latter had just stopped there, at the end of the day, and were chatting a few steps from the door, while the blacksmith finished shoeing the horse of one of them. All three were talking in low voices, like people who have precautions to take. “It was them, I tell you,” repeated insistently the smallest, to whom his embroidered blouse on his collar and his whip slung over his shoulder gave the air of a carter momentarily without a team; they all three arrived at the little inn of Linas, just as I was about to leave. “And they saw you?” asked the second peasant, who was holding under his arm one of those long duck-stalks used by poachers. “Ah! Well, yes,” continued the carter, “so for that I would have to have stolen my nickname of Ferret. I lay down on a bench as if I had my fill, but at a suitable distance to know what they were saying. ” “So, you heard them? ” “Yes; it was a question of a bourgeois car that the Alsatian had seen stopped at Longjumeau and for which he had prepared an accident. ” “What accident? ” “They didn’t give any explanation; all I know is that they must have been waiting for it as it passed by. ” “Where was it going? ” “It seemed to me, from a few words in the Parisien, that it must have been towards Souci or Bel-Air. ” “So it was the road to Fontenay that they must have taken? ” “Yes. We must go there.” “That’s my opinion.” “Let’s go,” said the poacher, “I’d just as soon have done with these three scoundrels. They’re preventing us from earning our living in peace; they were the clowns (murderers) of the great Baptiste: we must avenge him! ” “By the way,” continued the third peasant, who seemed to exercise authority over the other two, “it seems to me, Petit-Jean, that you spoke to the marshal just now as if he were an acquaintance. ” “Well, that’s right, I didn’t tell you,” continued the man with the duck-hole; “he’s an old colleague; a returned horse (a freed convict). “And he’s established now? ” “That is to say, he’s tried; but things aren’t going well, and since he’s been forgetting to pay his rent for a year… ” “Did the owner of the forge give him notice?” “What vexes him so much, that he told me just now that before leaving, he would like to demolish the hut. ” “Well, but now that he’s going to be without a job, couldn’t we do something with him? ” “Oh! We shouldn’t trust him, Monsieur Marc, he’d play some trick on us; he’s a friend of the Parisian, and with you we need rabbits who work conscientiously. ” “Actually, it’s Jacques we must think of,” the peasant continued. “We ‘ll leave separately, but without losing sight of each other, for it’s possible that we won’t get on with these gentlemen, and that there will be trouble. ” “As far as they’re concerned,” said the carter, passing his hands through the pockets of his blouse, under which pistol butts appeared, “I have two barkers here who are only too happy to make conversation. You have only to mount your horse, Monsieur Marc.” “Yes, the Ferret will go ahead. ” “And I will follow you. ” “It’s agreed.” All three approached the forge, and Marc was about to untie his mount to set off again, when a name spoken by a liveried servant who had just appeared on the threshold of the forge suddenly caught his attention. “It’s the post-chaise of Madame la Comtesse de Luxeuil,” he said. ” You won’t be wasting your time. ” “Are you sure there’s nothing broken?” asked the marshal. “Nothing, one of the little wheels just came off. ” “And you left the carriage near here? ” “Two hundred paces away. Look, here is the Marquis de Chanteaux with the Countess and her niece, who have decided to get out. ” Marc looked in the direction indicated by the valet and let out a sudden exclamation. “What is it?” asked the poacher, who was refastening one of the horse’s curb chains. “It’s her!” Marc stammered, palpitating. The poacher looked down the road. “Look! Do you know these ladies?” he said. The peasant said nothing, but stepped back, as if he wanted to hide behind his horse. At that moment, Madame de Luxeuil and the Marquis passed by to enter the forge. Honorine, who was following them a few paces behind, stopped near the door. Marc immediately dropped the bridle he was holding and made a sudden movement toward her. “Well, where are you going, Mr. Marc?” asked the poacher. “Shut up!” murmured the peasant, “I’m not leaving! ” “Ah! Well! But the others then! ” “You’ll go and meet them. ” “Alone? ” “With the Ferret. Take my horse; we’ll meet at the rock. ” “At the entrance to the woods? ” “Yes, near the great gate.” “Good.”
All these words were exchanged quickly and in low voices. The poacher mounted without asking any more, and set off followed by the Ferret. Marc then turned toward Honorine. She was standing in the same place, gazing with curious astonishment at the countryside unfolding before her. The last rays of the setting sun lit up the plateau, which sloped slightly toward the west, and made its yellowish soil, veined with red heather, resemble a sea of sulfur crossed by furrows of flame. The bare rocks that rose from time to time took on a sort of confused movement under the play of light and shadow, and a luminous fog surrounded the horizon interspersed with a few paler gaps. The gallop of the horse ridden by the poacher had already faded into the distance, and only the murmur of the night breeze skimming the rocks and heather could be heard. The young girl began to contemplate this wild landscape. The painful emotions that had recently agitated her had, so to speak, initiated her into reverie. She understood now what joy a soul tired of reality could find in throwing itself into those waking sleeps in which we create our own dreams. Then, so many events had followed one another in recent times, so many others were in preparation, that the young girl felt as if she were seized with vertigo. Her whole life, for the past few days, seemed to her a dream; she had difficulty distinguishing fact from thought, supposition from reality: everything was uncertain for her, floating, and she had been living, for the past few hours, like those half-awake people who have not regained consciousness of themselves. However, the noise Marc made as he approached tore her from her contemplation. Her eyes fell upon him, indifferent at first, then more attentive; her features expressed surprise mingled with doubt. She took a step toward the peasant, opened her mouth to speak, and stopped, troubled. He bowed to her. “I hope the accident that happened to the Countess’s post-chaise can easily be repaired,” he said with a kindly smile. “I hope so,” replied Honorine, whose eyes could not be taken off the peasant. “Mademoiselle must have been very frightened… ” “It’s his voice,” cried the young girl with a sort of explosion. Marc seemed disconcerted. “Pardon,” she continued, blushing a little, “but your features, your accent remind me of someone I knew… and yet Étienne was older, for he had white hair… But, tell me, didn’t you have an older brother, a gardener at the Convent of the Sacred Heart, in Tours? ” “Excuse me, miss, I never had a brother,” replied Marc. “Then the resemblance deceived me,” said Honorine, with a sort of regret. “There is no affront,” observed the peasant in a good-natured tone, “provided that Mademoiselle has no reproaches to make to this Étienne… ” “Reproaches,” repeated the young girl, “it is to him that I owe my life!… And he left without my being able to thank him! So, when I thought I recognized him in you, I was seized with a movement of joy!… ” “It is indeed an honor for me,” said the peasant, raising his hand to his hat; “as that mademoiselle was at the Sacré-Cœur in Tours. ” “Yes, sir. ” “Ah! I know Tours well,” resumed Marc openly, “and the Sacré-Cœur too!… There is a holy woman there for a superior. ” “Alas! she is no more!” interrupted Honorine, whose eyes filled with tears. The peasant made a sudden movement. “Is it really possible,” he cried; “Mother Thérèse is dead? ” “For a month.” Marc’s expression changed. “Ah! I understand then,” he said as if speaking to himself, “that’s why you left the convent… that you’re going to stay with the Countess?” Honorine replied affirmatively, and there was silence. The young girl had just been brought back to memories that she could forget at intervals, but which, at the slightest reminder, came back to her just as sharply. As for Marc, he had fallen into a sudden preoccupation. He emerged from it, however, after a few minutes. “So that Mademoiselle goes to Paris,” he said, resuming his tone of benevolent freedom; “it will be a wonderful change for her! For I presuppose that Mademoiselle will stay with the Countess?” “Indeed,” said Honorine, a little astonished at the peasant’s chatty familiarity. “Oh! it’s a large house,” he continued, “and one where people have a whale of a time. ” “So you know Madame de Luxeuil? ” “That is to say, I heard about her from a local man who had his niece in the Countess’s service; but he didn’t want to leave her because he thought it wasn’t safe enough. ” “What? ” “Madame the Countess receives all sorts of people, it seems, and in Paris there are more devils than saints, not to mention that Madame de Luxeuil’s son is the king of the bon vivants. Don’t you know him , Monsieur Arthur? ” “No,” replied the young girl, who was beginning to be embarrassed by the peasant’s confidences , and who looked behind her as if she wanted to rejoin her aunt. “Well, you’ll meet him,” Marc continued in the same tone. “He’s a finished bad boy, they say…” Honorine didn’t want to listen any further; she had reached the threshold of the forge and entered. Marc was about to follow her when the post-chaise, restored to good condition, appeared, preceded by the postilion who was driving the horses at a walking pace. Behind came the farrier with three new companions, whom he had been joined by on the road. Despite the onset of night, Marc thought he recognized them. He listened carefully to the voices that could be heard in the shadows, seemed still to doubt, and slipped behind the ruined wall that served as a fence to the farrier’s courtyard. Almost at the same moment the newcomers reached it, and, in the light of the forge, Marc recognized the Parisian, Moser, and Bruc. The presence of these three men was a ray of light for the peasant. The Ferret had obviously been mistaken about the direction they were to take, and the carriage they had prepared to crash was Madame de Luxeuil’s. Some fortuitous circumstance had, no doubt, prevented them from taking advantage of this accident, but they could recover the missed opportunity by waiting for the post-chaise near the entrance to the Pont d’Antony. The night would then be complete, the road deserted, and the location favorable. The danger from which the Countess and her niece had just escaped was therefore, so to speak, only postponed. On the other hand, the departure of Marc’s two companions made his intervention was powerless, and, after the poacher’s warnings, he could hope for no help from the farrier. All these thoughts came to him one after the other, and he was still trying to think of what to do when the Parisian and Moser reappeared on the threshold of the forge. They were both consulting in low voices and pointing in the direction of Arcueil. It was clear that Marc had guessed their intentions and that they wanted to take the lead, while the travelers, who had joined the post-chaise with the Marquis, completed some arrangements. The peasant understood that the slightest delay could ruin everything and his decision was made at once. Coming out from behind the wall that hid him, he advanced with a firm step towards the forge, passed slowly, without appearing to notice, in front of the group that was talking outside the threshold and entered the farrier’s room. At the sight of him, the Parisian and the Jew had thrown themselves aside with a movement of surprise, and they looked around them. “It’s him!” murmured the first. “It’s him!” repeated the Alsatian. “He’s alone! ” “All alone! ” “And he didn’t recognize us? ” “No. ” “Then he’s a lottery winner, ” Jacques quickly resumed. “To hell with the post-chaise! I’m staying here. ” “How! Are you giving up our business? ” “Do you want to let this brigand escape?” “No, no,” said Moser, whose accent expressed the struggle between avarice and hatred; “but missing an affair is bad luck. ” “We can find another,” observed the Parisian, “while we will never find such an opportunity to take revenge. Watch at the door so that I can warn Bruc.” He went to find the latter, who was talking with the marshal, spoke to them for a while in low voices; then all three joined the Alsatian. At that moment the postilion’s whip was heard and the post-chaise set off at a gallop. Marc made a gesture of joy; the travelers were saved. But he himself found himself in the power of enemies from whom he could expect no mercy. He looked around quickly, went into the second room, ran to the window and opened it; but at the moment he placed his foot on the edge of the embrasure, the two shutters suddenly closed, and he heard them being barred from the outside. He rushed towards the door; it was guarded! Marc stepped back, plunging both hands into the pockets of his long jacket, and went to lean with his back against the wall. He heard a whisper, as if the assailants had been consulting, then there was silence, and the Parisian entered, followed by Moser. The man with the club and the blacksmith remained on the threshold. Jacques was, as usual, the first to speak. “Ah! You weren’t expecting us, my boy,” he said, with hatred evidently counteracted by fear, and stopping a few steps from the peasant. “On the contrary,” replied Marc calmly, “for I was looking for you. ” “You admit it!” cried Jacques, who turned blue with anger. “Did you hear, you others? He admits that he was looking for us. ” “We must cool him down!” shouted Bruc from the door. The Parisian and Moser made a move to rush at Marc; but he immediately withdrew his hands from his large pockets and presented the barrel of a pistol to each of them. The Alsatian and Jacques hurried back to the entrance. “You see I have something to serve you,” he continued without being moved; ” so don’t act mean, and let’s stick to the conversation. ” “He thinks he’s going to make us a fool, the prigand!” said Moser, who was standing outside the opening of the door and completely hidden behind the partition. “Not me,” replied Marc, “but these two toys. ” “Shoot if you have the heart!” shouted Jacques. “I prefer to shoot at point-blank range. ” “So you’ll stay there? ” “Until you let me go.” The Parisian seemed embarrassed: he turned to his companions, and all The four of them consulted together for a long time in low voices; finally, the door was pushed back, double-locked, and Marc found himself a prisoner. He listened, trying to guess what was being prepared against him; but he heard only a confused murmur, through which resounded from time to time a few isolated words spoken above. He distinguished those of rent … chased … bourgeois beggar … Revenge for two. Then the voices fell silent, as if everyone had agreed; the bellows of the forge began to be heard, and a light shone through the badly fitted door. Marc, worried, pressed his eye against one of the cracks. The Parisian and his companions were busy breaking up the benches and tables, the debris of which they threw into the forge. The blacksmith calmly watched this destruction of his furniture and himself stirred the fire. Everything soon burst into flames. Then each one grabbed one of the burning fragments, which were scattered along the timbers, against the partition, and even under the thatched roof. The fire broke out simultaneously in ten separate places. Marc, who understood their intention, rushed against the door and shook it violently; but the lock resisted all his efforts. “Ah! the gentleman from the private room is waking up,” said the Parisian, bursting into laughter; “do you hear how the waiter is ringing?” “Open, open,” cried Marc, who continued to shake the door in vain. “There! Bourgeois!” resumed Jacques with the same ferocious irony; you will be served… a stewed dish with steamed sauce… Hey! you, Bruc, put some embers against the partition so that the bourgeois can warm himself more closely. ” “Get out of here,” interrupted Moser, who had reached the threshold, “now it’s rattling everywhere. ” “Long live!” cried the blacksmith, waving his cap, “the old miser from Etrechy will be in for a treat! That’ll teach him to chase away his tenants. ” “Let’s go,” continued the Parisian, “and let’s make sure our game doesn’t leave the lodge. ” “We’ll stay outside to warm our hands. ” “That’s it; goodbye, Rage.” “Cook in your own juices, my boy, and let it do you good.” Marc said nothing; for for a moment he had been trying to force the shutter of the window overlooking the courtyard, but all his attempts were useless. He was returning to the entrance to parley again when he heard the forge door close noisily, and the voices of the four companions fade away outside. The flame was beginning to crackle around him; thick smoke surrounded him, a burning air made it difficult for him to breathe. Walled up in the fire, he was doomed to perish! This conviction threw him into furious despair. He began to run around the room where he was locked, screaming with rage and groping for a way out. The flames soon opened one for him. The partition separating him from the forge collapsed at his feet. He tried to climb over the debris; but on the other side, everything was on fire! He was forced to retreat to the window. The fire, fanned by the wind, was finally engulfing everything. The roof timbers, set ablaze first, were collapsing with the thatch, which was scattered in a shower of fire; the very walls, charred by the flames, were bending with a roar, and scattering their blackened stones in the blaze . Meanwhile, Marc, panting and blinded, continued to run amidst the smoking debris, calling for help and looking for a way out. Finally, he thinks he can make out, in the middle of the smoke, a place where the fallen beams have dragged down part of the wall; he runs there, he crosses the smoking ruins, he reaches the top of the breach! Already the fresh air from outside hits him in the face; one more effort and he is saved!… But, suddenly, the stone that supported him comes loose; his hands slide on the burning wall, he lets out a cry and falls back buried under the rubble! Chapter 7. Three friends of high society. About an hour before the events recounted in the preceding chapter, three horsemen coming from Maillecour were heading towards the main road to Orléans, following one of those wide, shady side roads that form a network of avenues around Paris from which the castles have been removed. A glance was enough to recognize that all three belonged to that aristocracy that has been conventionally called the elegant world, a mixture of idlers and the wealthy who set the tone for the nation, much like those provincial orchestra conductors whose A is always out of tune. The three horsemen of whom we are speaking occupied, moreover, different places in this fashionable society. Arthur de Luxeuil represented the extravagant class whose entire existence is lost in conventional follies and noisy trivialities; Marcel de Gausson, the elite portion that only surrenders to fashion the surface of life; Aristide Marquier, finally, that fraction of the imitating lions, who, to all the vices copied from others, add the ridiculousness of their own. The hunting costumes that they all three wore revealed, so to speak, these different natures. That of Arthur de Luxeuil, composed according to the latest prescriptions of fashion, included all these complicated and bizarre improvements borrowed from English sport; each piece of his equipment had an unusual shape which announced, at first glance, the patent of invention. That of Marcel de Gausson, on the contrary, was so simple, that the eye stopped there without being struck by any detail. It grasped only the elegance of the whole which presented a sort of compromise so skillful, that one could see in it equally, according to what one was oneself, the informality of the thinker, or the distinguished of fashion. Marcel always seemed dressed like the one who was looking at him. As for Marquier, he was a small, plump, short-sighted man, instantly recognizable as the counterfeit Arthur de Luxeuil. His costume was overloaded with a prodigious quantity of braid, tassels, plaques, and carvings, shimmering or jingling with every gesture, which gave him a vulgar and triumphant air impossible to describe. But one could guess the avarice beneath this prodigality of bad taste. Through its useless embellishments, the equipment revealed the painted fabrication of the bazaars. One only had to look with some attention to recognize that the silver was only plated copper, the ivory only turned bone, the buckskin only dyed dog , the tortoiseshell only melted horn, and the silk only cotton. Marquier resembled the front of a fixed-price shop; he was dressed only in lies! His mount corresponded to the rest. He was one of those riding-horses, accustomed to dancing on their hocks to give themselves a fiery air, and who recall thoroughbred horses as our tragic actors recall Achilles and Mithridates. Lucifer was, however, one of Marquier’s glories; he claimed he was of pure Arabian blood, and always spoke of him as if he were the marvelous horse that only Philippe’s son could master. According to him, no one else but he was capable of appreciating the superb animal, nor of making himself understood by it. Now, this favorite thesis that the followers of fashion were pleased to make him support, in mockery, had become, for a few moments, the subject of a new debate between de Luxeuil and him. “I maintain to you, my dear,” said the first, “that Lucifer is a nag. ” “A nag!” repeated Marquier, scandalized; “a horse worth a thousand crowns!” Arthur looked at him. “Come now, don’t tell me such things, my good man,” he continued; ” Lucifer will have cost you… what he’s worth. ” “And what is he worth, then, in your opinion? ” “But something like five hundred francs. ” “Do you like it? ” “Perhaps that’s too much; let’s say a hundred crowns. ” “He’s mad,” said Marquier, turning to Marcel de Gausson, with a forced gaiety. Ah! ah! ah! a hundred crowns!… So you think, my dear fellow, that I exaggerate the purchase price? –Yes. –And for what reason? –First, to give you the appearance of riding a horse worth three thousand francs, which is always honorable; then to have a chance of reselling it at a profit, which is never dishonoring. –Come now, I see there’s no way to hide anything from you, said Marquier, continuing to laugh grudgingly; you know my horse and me better than we know ourselves. –Does that surprise you? –Not at all, my good fellow, not at all… I’ll pass judgment: Lucifer is a nag who has no more Arab blood than I do. –Ah! as for you, banker, you have it in every vein; I recognize you as a thoroughbred. “Very well, very well, Arthur,” interrupted the little man, who would have been angry if he had dared; “but all your jokes will not prevent Lucifer from having pedigree; ask M. de Gausson’s opinion instead. ” “I know very little about horses,” replied the latter, who evidently wished not to get involved in the debate. “But what do you think? ” “I think it would have been prudent to have proof of Lucifer’s lineage; titles answer everything. ” “Bah! titles!” cried Marquier, “what’s the use? Titles are nothing; it is merit that must be consulted; without merit… ” “Ah! Grace, banker,” interrupted de Luxeuil; “you are going to recite a speech from the center-left. I would still rather accept you and your horse as Arabs, especially since it is night, and we would do well to quicken our pace.” “Indeed,” said Marcel, “Mr. Arthur must be in a hurry to see the Countess again, who is doubtless now at Bagatelle. ” “Well, I had forgotten,” cried the banker. “Today is Madame de Luxeuil arriving from Tours… with your cousin, my good fellow!” Arthur replied in the affirmative, brushing his spur against his horse. “Well! Does that idea make you trot?” continued Marquier , laughing. “Be careful, be careful! There is nothing so dangerous as these boarders who come out of the convent. ” “Why dangerous? ” “Why? Ah! ah! ah! That is an excellent question!… but because one falls in love with them, my dear fellow! ” Arthur looked at Marcel. “That boy is becoming stupid!” he said in an accent of true compassion. “I maintain what I said,” cried Marquier ardently; “I maintain that cousins are seductresses at home.” By dint of seeing them, of finding them near you at all hours and on all occasions, you end up having ideas… It happened to me! “Having ideas?” repeated Arthur, “you’re boasting, Marquier. ” “Upon my honor! I almost fell in love with a relative on my last trip to Burgundy; so, I repeat, my dear, beware! ” “I will beware myself, Marquier. ” “No, you’re joking; but I have good observation, you see! When you do business worth several millions, you must know the human heart. Also, the arrival of your cousin is an event that would worry me if I were in Clotilde’s place.” Arthur merely shrugged his shoulders; but Marcel could not help a movement of impatience; he turned to the banker. “I don’t understand what there can be in common between Mademoiselle Clotilde and Madame de Luxeuil’s niece,” he observed coldly. “What there is in common?” repeated Marquier, with a spiteful air, “oh, by Jove! it’s Arthur. One is his cousin, the other his mistress… ” “And it doesn’t seem to you, sir, that there is any difference between these two titles?” interrupted Marcel more sharply. “Certainly,” stammered the banker, a little disconcerted, “there is a difference… ” “Capital, my dear,” said Arthur, who had until then listened calmly, “for a mistress amuses you in passing, while a cousin bores you perpetually… But look,” he added, suddenly holding back his horse, “do you not see a glimmer of light?” Over there, at the end of the road? “It’s a fire!” cried Marquier, whose gaze had also just fallen on the designated point. “Yes,” continued Marcel, who was leaning over the saddle to see better; ” quickly, gentlemen, we may be able to render some assistance. ” The three riders put their horses into a gallop and arrived, in a few moments, in front of the Forge-des-Buttes. “Ah! it’s the marshal’s hovel,” said Arthur, who had previously stopped there. “A hut that isn’t worth thirty louis,” added Marquier disdainfully; ” it was well worth warming up our horses. ” “It’s strange that everything is closed,” observed de Gausson as he approached. “Could the forge be abandoned? ” “No, for only yesterday I saw it open. This fire could not have started by itself; look at that barred window.” Marcel wanted to put his head forward toward the opening pointed out to him; but a whirlwind of smoke and sparks forced him to step back. Almost at the same moment a dull moan reached him. “Did you hear?” he cried. “It sounds like a groan,” Arthur observed. “Listen!” They listened, and a new moan rang out. “There’s someone in the forge,” said de Gausson, quickly dismounting and running to the door, which he tried to open. But the door was firmly closed. He called his companions to his aid; the banker excused himself by asserting that Lucifer was too touchy for him to be able to leave him like that. “Not to mention that you would have to get back in the saddle,” Arthur objected, “which is always a perilous and uncertain operation for you. ” “For example,” cried Marquier, “I, who have two years of riding experience!” Do you know that Ducrou gave me lessons? “He would have done better to give you legs, my good fellow; it’s your legs that are lacking; one can’t ride a horse with fins; but look, Atala, I see de Gausson over there, exhausting himself. ” He threw his mare’s bridle to Marquier and joined Marcel, whom he found busy forcing the entrance to the forge. “God damn me, my dear fellow, you look like Samson tearing down the gates of Gaza,” he cried, laughing. “I can always hear the moaning,” interrupted de Gausson, “in the name of God, help me. ” “Willingly, but something would be needed to lift the gate. ” “A gun.” Arthur ran to Marquier and unhooked the weapon hanging from his horse’s saddle . “What do you want? What is it?” asked the frightened banker. De Luxeuil did not take the time to answer him; running to the forge, he passed the barrel of the rifle between the threshold and the door, and used it as a lever. Marquier uttered an exclamation of despair. “What are you doing, Arthur?” he cried, trying in vain to make his two horses move forward. “You’re going to break my rifle! A weapon worth a thousand francs!… Arthur, I don’t want to… Arthur, you will answer me for what happens…” Arthur did not listen and continued his operation. Finally, the door, taken off its hinges, fell inside. Marcel entered the forge, reached the pile of rubble under which Marc lay half-buried, freed him with difficulty and carried him to the road. The fresh air soon dissipated the kind of suffocation that the heat had caused the peasant; He opened his eyes again and looked around him, as if he wanted to recognize himself. “Come now, he’ll get away with a few burns,” said de Luxeuil; ” now he’s regaining consciousness. ” “Aren’t you hurt?” asked de Gausson, who was on one knee and leaning solicitously over Marc. “Hurt?” repeated the latter, mechanically trying to move his limbs. “I don’t know… I’m suffering a little… but it seems to me… no, I ‘m not hurt!” He had made an effort and had half straightened up. “By Jove! We arrived in time,” continued Arthur; “but how on earth did you find yourself in this hut, my friend?” “I was locked in there, sir, before they set fire to it. ” “Ah, well! But then it was an ambush? ” “Which would have succeeded without your arrival; for I had already fainted… and, even now, everything seems to be spinning before me…” He spoke in a broken voice and his head reeled. Marcel asked Luxeuil if he had his hunting flask. “It’s empty,” Arthur replied, “but the banker’s must be full, for he only carries it as an ornament… Hey! Here, Marquier, come quickly, my good man, we need you. ” But the banker, who had just dismounted, was busy looking at his rifle, whose bent barrel, as it lifted the door, formed a sort of irregular arc. “I was sure of it,” he repeated with an air of tragic consternation; “a luxury weapon that had not yet been of use to me; See, my dear fellow, see what you have done. “Well! What?” asked de Luxeuil, approaching, “is your musket a little bent? That proves it was worthless. You will kill no less game for it, go on. Have you anything in your flask? ” “It’s a lost weapon!” continued Marquier, whose eyes could not take their eyes off the unfortunate rifle; “what to do with it now? ” “You can fix it up into an arquebus,” replied de Luxeuil philosophically. The banker made a gesture of impatience. “I’m not joking,” he cried sourly, “everyone holds on to what belongs to them, a rifle is capital and its enjoyment can be considered as interest; but when you lose both the interest and the capital… ” “To hell with him!” interrupted Arthur, “isn’t he going to talk to us about finance now!” Take my rifle, my dear fellow, and let it be no more . Marquier’s face suddenly brightened. “What! In truth,” he cried, “you consent to an exchange?… “I consent to anything you please, provided I have your flask for this poor devil of whom they wanted to make an auto-da-fé. ” “There, my dear fellow, there!” said Marquier, bringing back the little flask wrapped in braided leather that he carried over his shoulder, “I’ll give it to him myself…” He advanced towards Marc, whose faintness continued, and bent down to bring the flask to his lips; but suddenly, he changed color and remained motionless, his hand outstretched. “Well! what’s the matter with you?” asked Arthur in astonishment. “Nothing,” stammered Marquier, whose large, wide-open eyes continued to gaze at Marc with dismay, “it’s just that I thought… it seems to me… ” “What? You know this man? ” “Not at all, not at all!… But pardon me, here’s the flask, my dear fellow… I’m afraid Lucifer might escape.” And turning abruptly on his heels, he went to take the reins of the horses, which had wandered off a few paces, sniffing at the sparse grass that lined the ditches. Marcel made Marc swallow a mouthful of Madeira, which seemed to revive him; he told the young man he felt better, and thanked him profusely . De Gausson interrupted him to ask where he was going. “To Corbeil,” replied the peasant. “It’s a long road,” continued Marcel; “you can’t do it alone and on foot, especially at this hour.” “I’m afraid so,” said Marc, stretching out his burned and aching limbs. “He should try to reach the next village,” Arthur observed . “I’d rather suggest we take him to Bagatelle, where he can be rescued and spend the night,” said Marcel. “Very willingly, if he’s able to follow us. ” “I’ll take him on horseback. ” “You? ” “Why not! ” “On horseback with that peasant! Ah! ah! ah! it will be a group worthy of Charlet. ” “I don’t understand what’s ridiculous about it… ” “What! But just think, my dear fellow, that you’ll look like civilization galloping with barbarism! Besides, you know perfectly well that we don’t take anyone on horseback; it’s not done. If our friends on the Boulevard de Gand found out, you would be dishonored! ” “You must leave me, sir,” said Marc to de Gausson; “I hope to be able to to reach the nearest houses alone… “Do you think you can ride?” asked the young man, ignoring Arthur’s laughter. “I think so, sir,” replied Marc, “but I can also walk…” “Come now, lean on me… our horses are here, a few steps away. ” “No, sir, no, I won’t accept…” “Come, I tell you, we’ll find Madame de Luxeuil’s doctor right at Bagatelle.” Marc raised his head abruptly. “What!” he cried, “is it Madame de Luxeuil’s?…” “Do you know her, friend?” asked Arthur. “Just from hearing her name,” replied the peasant, whose resistance seemed to suddenly give way. “But since monsieur is willing to take me… I won’t be so rude as to refuse, and I am at his command.” De Gausson mounted his horse, helped the peasant onto the horse’s haunches, much to Arthur’s amusement, and the three of them continued their journey to Bagatelle. Chapter 8. Madame de Luxeuil’s Villa. The Countess’s villa was situated on one of the small slopes that border the Bièvre. It was less a country house than one of those rustic pied-à-terres where the nobility of our time goes to study nature, just as those of the eighteenth century went, in their little houses, to study love. Everything there had been arranged for immediate and fleeting enjoyment. Nothing natural or lasting. One saw only trees with hasty sap and hothouse plants transported there to shine for a few days and then die. The flowerbed bloomed every year on a written order from the Countess, and the gardener unfurled his greenery when he saw the curtains drawn. The result was an indescribable artificial abundance and exaggerated freshness that gave Madame de Luxeuil’s park the appearance of an operatic setting. Being piled up so tightly, the flowers ceased to be believable and made one believe they were imitations of painted gauze, while their excessively numerous scents reminded you, in spite of yourself, of the perfumer’s shop. The velvety lawns, smooth and clipped with scissors, seemed like so many Aubusson carpets. One would have looked in vain in these four acres for a small field flower, a bramble tearing at the foliage, a tuft of wild sorrel crowned with its pink seeds, a sweetbriar mingled with woodland honeysuckle. At Bagatelle, man had been ashamed of the works of God and had replaced them with his own. There every tree was a conquest of art, every flower bore a famous name; the smallest blade of grass came from America or Asia, with notable improvements: it was a revised and corrected creation which surpassed the other as much as one of our charming boarders, corseted, gloved, coiffed, shod, surpasses the young Indian girl emerging from the waters of the Ganges, with no other adornment than her beauty. Besides, Bagatelle was precisely the dwelling which the Countess needed; she spent at most six weeks there, employed in receiving visits or paying them; then she returned to Paris, from which she had only left to do as everyone else. The Eden arranged around the house would then dry up, and everything remained bare until the following season, when the park would be refurnished with greenery and flowers. Besides this villa, Madame de Luxeuil had formerly owned land in Burgundy; but her excessive spending and the lack of order in the administration of her property had forced her to part with it after the death of the Earl. This sale, however, had not been able to restore her affairs , which were then more embarrassed than ever; but, thanks to the position she occupied in the world, she could persist in her habits, encroaching each year on the following years, and digging an abyss that she no longer measured, because she had ceased to see the bottom. Arthur, for his part, aggravated this situation by ruinous disorders which became, between him and his mother, the cause of incessant quarrels. Prodigal for his private satisfaction, but stingy for that of the other, each of them was always armed with reproaches, threats, recriminations, followed by long coldness, which only interest could dissipate or suspend. However, for the moment, the Countess and Arthur supported each other and seemed more or less in agreement. Both showed equal eagerness towards Honorine. Madame de Luxeuil had been full of thoughtfulness throughout the journey; Arthur, who arrived at Bagatelle an hour after his mother, showed no less affection to his cousin. He apologized for not having been able to go to meet her , inquired how she had endured the journey, and ended by introducing her to M. Marcel de Gausson. As for the banker, he had left them shortly after meeting Marc, on the pretext of an essential matter. De Luxeuil then recounted their adventure at the Buttes forge, and Honorine had no difficulty in recognizing in the peasant they had just saved the man she had previously encountered. She anxiously inquired about his condition, and, despite her cousin’s assurances, was about to ask to see him, when Doctor Darcy entered , affirming that the wounded man only needed rest. The rest of the evening was spent getting to know each other. The Countess and Honorine were experiencing that kind of overexcitement that travel gives and which predisposes them to conversation. The young girl especially felt a need for expansion that was carrying her away in spite of herself. The kind of intoxication caused by the first changes of scene, the novelty of her surroundings, the tenderness of the welcome she received, all had opened her heart. After two hours spent in this new family, which she was already adopting with all the enthusiasm of a soul widowed by affection, she let herself be led by her aunt into the apartment intended for her . “Here is your domain, dear beauty,” said Madame de Luxeuil, showing her three rooms and a dressing room in the best taste; “if you find it too small, we can add the library. ” Honorine protested, declaring that she found the apartment much too large and too beautiful. “First of all, know that nothing is too beautiful or too large for you, dear child,” continued the Countess, “then you will soon realize that I am giving you nothing that is not indispensable. A bedroom, a boudoir, a small music room, one could not do without less. Justine, who sleeps there, behind, will be at your disposal and will henceforth obey only you. As for your habits, you will regulate them according to your whim; the equipage will always be at your disposal; all the people of the house are ordered to obey you as they would myself; I finally want you to be completely free and mistress. Honorine, touched by so much kindness, could only reply with a few stammered words, raising the Countess’s hand to her lips: the latter kissed her forehead. “Don’t thank me,” she continued amicably, “and above all, make full use of the right I give you; my only desire is to see you happy and to be able to replace, in part, your mother!” She stopped as if this memory had moved her, turned her head away and seemed to steal a tear from her niece, then making an effort: “Come,” she continued, “here these ideas come back to me again… In spite of myself, everything brings me back to them!… I loved her so much, this dear sister… You will see in my house a thousand objects that were of use to her and that I preserve like holy relics!… But I am wrong to tell you this now, I grieve you!” Forgive me, Honorine, and be more reasonable than I am. She wiped away the tears that were streaming down the girl’s cheeks, advised her to sleep well, and left her with Justine. While helping her new mistress undress, the latter tried to distract her from her emotion with skillful attentions and restrained praise, and Honorine, whose stay in the convent had ill- prepared her for distrust, gradually allowed herself to express her gratitude for the welcome received at Bagatelle. Justine confirmed her favorable dispositions with a passionate apology for the Countess and M. Arthur. He was not only the most brilliant cavalier of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, no heart was more frank, more devoted, more open. All this was said with a volubility which could have led one to believe in a lesson learned; but inexperienced and prejudiced, the orphan found in it only the proof of an excessive devotion perhaps, but which nonetheless honored the masters capable of inspiring it. When the chambermaid had exhausted all forms of praise, she finally stopped and allowed herself to be dismissed. Honorine, left alone, did not think of going to bed. The turmoil excited in her by such a complete change of position had kept sleep away; she felt the need to look more closely at her new life, to better understand the role assigned to her; to study at last, at the entrance, this unknown world which had just opened before her steps. She went to lean on the window, which had remained open, and fell into serious meditation. The night was calm and starry; a luminous mist, sliding over the trees, formed here and there, under their shade, vague clearings. The wind which rustled in the leaves imitated the sound of a spring, and the thousand flowers in the flowerbed sent their intoxicating aromas to the balcony. Imperceptibly torn from her reflections by these perfumes, these murmurs and these gleams, Honorine looked at her feet and was soon to experience the fascinating influence of her surroundings. A sort of happy languor flowed in her veins, and the well-being of her senses was added to the well-being of her soul. The happiness which she had enjoyed until then was clothed in a uniformity which made it, so to speak, insensible; one breathed it like air, without noticing it. The one she was experiencing now contained, on the contrary, I know not what flavor of novelty which gave it something intoxicating. Never before had her joy had this turbulent and unexpected vivacity. She was alternately seized by bursts of joy which she would have liked to express in songs or cries, and by tenderness which filled her eyes with tears. She thanked God in a low voice for having reserved for her new protectors for her abandonment; she blessed in her heart the family which received her so tenderly, and invented a thousand impossible ways to prove her gratitude. In her first preoccupation, she had hardly paid attention to the apartment which was intended for her; but, once emerged from her reverie, she looked around her with curiosity. The room where she was then, was so different from her cheerful but modest cell at the Sacré-Cœur that she was dazzled. The inlaid rosewood bed was covered with a quilt of old Flanders guipure lined with soft blue satin. The curtains, of the same fabric and color, gathered in a ring of worked ivory, and fell in wide folds to the parquet floor hidden by an Indian mat. The rest of the furniture, in rosewood and silk cloth, had no ornament other than a paler, but charmingly crafted passementerie . After admiring at a glance this ensemble, at once simple and splendid, Honorine went into the next room, arranged as a study . A magnificent Petzold piano occupied one side; it was framed by two bookcases of citronnier wood filled with books or scores. On the other side had been set up a cedar easel and a painting table of red lacquer. Finally, near the window, a half-open chest of drawers revealed, in its compartments, a collection of various silks and wools. A loveseat and a few bamboo chairs completed the furnishings. But it was especially upon entering the boudoir that the young girl was struck with admiration. There, all the pursuits of luxury and all the whims of coquetry had been exhausted. The walls were upholstered in a pink silk fabric held by golden claws and interrupted, from time to time, by immense mirrors which took up the whole height of the room. This was furnished with fringed divans, carved ebony dressers, and old Sèvres pedestal tables. At each corner rose marble planters decorated with camellias, still new at that time, and, a little further on, chased bronze consoles were overloaded with all those precious nothings which the art of the whole world provides for the idle curiosity of our privileged people. A Chinese blind, half raised, let into the room a soft light which glided through these silks, this gold, these bronzes, these flowers, and gave them a fantastic splendor. Honorine remained for a moment on the threshold as if dazzled; Then, gradually growing bolder, she entered the boudoir and began to walk through it slowly, examining every detail. Surprise soon gave way to admiration, admiration to joy. All this was hers and for her!… Besides the pleasure of possession, she found there a new proof of the Countess’s solicitude. It was to please her that she had brought together in her apartment all the marvels of luxury, and the very excess of this luxury proved the excess of benevolence. Also, what struck the young girl’s eyes was less valuable for its beauty than for the intention which had presided over this arrangement. This was what was to make this opulence expressive and precious to her. She understood this vividly and profoundly. Each new admiration was immediately translated, in her heart, by a sort of counter-stroke, a surge of gratitude for Madame de Luxeuil. Finally, after having explored what the latter had called her domain, after having experienced all the childish enchantments and all the young girlish pride that such an examination could arouse, she decided to go to bed and fell asleep, drunk with her joyful confidence. Chapter 9. The Old Portrait. When Honorine opened her eyes again the next day, the day shone in all its splendor, and the birds singing on her balcony seemed to be celebrating her welcome to Bagatelle; this cheerful awakening restored to her all the happiness of the day before. Justine, who entered almost at the same moment, informed her that her aunt and cousin had already inquired about her. She hastened to dress in response to their eagerness, and sent to ask to see them; but, after a rather long absence, the maid returned to tell her, with embarrassment, that M. Arthur had gone out, and that Madame de Luxeuil was not yet up. A little surprised and disappointed, Honorine was preparing to go down to the garden when she remembered the wounded man brought back the day before by M. de Gausson. She asked Justine about him and learned that he was up and would have already left Bagatelle, if he had not wanted to thank the Countess for her hospitality. The meeting with this man at the Forge-des-Buttes had left the young girl with a memory vivid enough for her to want to see him again before her departure. He might, moreover, need help or protection, and she felt too happy not to be ready to protect and help. She therefore had the room occupied by the peasant pointed out to her and went there. This room was located on the second floor, in a part of the house reserved solely for servants; to get there one had to cross a large abandoned room which served as a storage room. There were piled up discarded sofas, unused couches, old carpets, and piles of chipped crockery. At the far end, in the most conspicuous place, several old portraits with old-fashioned frames had been hung, among which stood out a larger and more modern canvas. At the moment Honorine entered, the peasant was stopped in front of this last painting, and contemplating it with such profound attention that he did not hear the door open. He stood before the painting, standing, with both hands clasped and his head slightly thrown back, in an attitude which expressed both pain and respect.
The young girl, surprised, advanced towards him; but, at the sound of her footsteps, Marc turned his head away and revealed his face covered in tears.
“What are you doing here! What’s the matter with you?” cried Honorine, seized. The peasant continued to look at her with an indefinable expression and without being able to reply; finally, running to her, he seized her by the hand and led her in front of the painting. It represented a woman painted full-length, in the costume of the end of the Empire. Her short-waisted velvet dress, lamé with gold, was held at the shoulders by clasps of brilliants; a belt of fine pearls encircled her waist, and a comb with a gallery of diamonds gathered on the top of her head waves of black hair. Honorine recognized at first glance the features and costume of a miniature that had been bequeathed to her by the Superior of Tours; it was the portrait of the Baroness, painted immediately after her marriage, in all the splendor of youth and health. The young girl gave a cry and recoiled. “Ah! you recognize her?” stammered Marc. “My mother!” interrupted Honorine, involuntarily extending her hands toward the picture. “Yes,” continued the peasant. “Oh! it’s her, it’s her. ” “You knew her then?” cried the young girl. “Not so young… nor so smiling,” continued Marc; “for this is a portrait from the time when she was happy! But that’s how she looked… Just now, as I was leaving, when my eyes met hers, I thought I saw her herself, and yet I didn’t expect to find this portrait here… ” Honorine shuddered. “Indeed,” she said, “it can only have been placed there without my aunt’s knowledge; otherwise, she would not have suffered… Only yesterday, she spoke to me of my mother with such emotion… ” Marc raised his head. “Ah! She spoke to you about it,” he said, smiling bitterly… and… with emotion!… Yes, I understand, it is a way of gaining your friendship, and the Countess needs it. ” “What do you mean? ” “Nothing, nothing; except that, in the time of the prioress, Madame de Luxeuil never thought of inquiring whether you were dead or alive, and that, to make her think of you, it was necessary to hope to have you at her discretion. ” Honorine was struck by this observation, which had already crossed her mind; but the surprise of hearing it expressed by the peasant prevented her from dwelling on it. She looked at him with anxious distrust and cried: “How do you know all this, sir, and what interest do you have in pointing it out to me?” Marc seemed troubled. “What does it matter to you,” he replied abruptly, “if you can find in what I say a useful warning.” “To believe a warning, one must know the one who gives it, ” Honorine observed with a certain firmness. Marc was silent for a moment. “She is right,” he murmured, as if he were speaking to himself; “and yet… she must not doubt… she must have confidence!” He stopped and seemed to hesitate again; the young girl, who was looking at him, waited anxiously; finally, he said to her slowly: “If I give you proof that I knew your mother, that she trusted my words… that I am devoted to you!… will you promise to believe me? ” “Provided the proof is certain,” Honorine replied agitatedly. Marc paused again. “When the Baroness died sixteen years ago,” he continued with emotion, ” she wrote her last will and testament herself. ” “I know,” said the young girl, whose eyes became moist; “the prioress made me reread them many times. ” “Then you haven’t forgotten the recommendation that ends this will? ” “No, it says: I leave to my daughter half of a ring that I wore for a long time. ” Then the testatrix added: “And I commend her to the memory of the one who owns the other half. “What! You know? ” “That last gift from your mother… you still have it? ” “Here it is! But the other half?” Marc handed Honorine a fragment of a ring adorned with emeralds; she brought it closer, trembling, to the one she was keeping, and recognized it as the half of the ring bequeathed by her mother to an unknown protector! There was a moment of indescribable shock: the young girl, distraught, looked at Marc who, with both arms pressed to his chest, seemed to be making an effort to suppress some secret impulse. “Ah! Speak,” she stammered, her hands clasped and outstretched, “who are you? How did you know my mother?” “Don’t ask me anything,” interrupted the peasant, “just remember the Baroness’s last recommendation, and don’t be too surprised if she thought a man like me capable of serving you. The devotion of a dog can be useful to the richest and most powerful.” “And how have I deserved this devotion? How could my mother have hoped for it… ” “I have nothing to answer; but remember your promise! You said that if I brought certain proof of the Baroness’s confidence, you would share that confidence. ” “Ah! I share it,” cried the young girl, “and whatever you say, I will believe it. ” The peasant made a gesture of joy. “Then all is well,” he said, “and God, I hope, will help us! Be careful with your aunt and your cousin; beware of displays of affection….. I will watch over them and you! ” “So I will see you again,” said Honorine quickly. “Whenever you need me. Just try to remember Étienne’s signal at the convent. ” “Ah! I haven’t forgotten it. ” “Well! When you hear it, I will be there. Here is someone, farewell!” He took the young girl’s hand, brought it to his heart and to his lips, then, making an effort, he hurried away. Honorine had not yet had time to recover when the maid came to inform her that the Countess was waiting for her. She tried to regain a calm appearance, and went to join the latter who was in the garden with the Marquis de Chanteaux, Doctor Darcy, and Marcel de Gausson. The Countess quickly left the company on seeing her niece, and advanced towards her with both hands outstretched. “Well! Come then, dear little one,” she cried in that sweet , sing-song voice adopted by women of the world when they wish to show themselves affectionate; “we were very sad not to see you.” I was afraid that you were ill… “And Madame la Comtesse had a right to be worried,” added the Duke, in a tone of old-fashioned gallantry, “for the dawn usually shows its fresh face earlier!… ” “Mademoiselle’s is tired,” observed the doctor, whose eye was accustomed to studying the slightest alteration of features. “Ah! my God! It’s doubtless the journey!” resumed Madame de Luxeuil; ” I was wrong to send for you, my dear beauty; you need rest; we will return, if you wish…” Honorine assured her aunt that she was well, and begged her not to disturb anything for her; but the latter persisted, questioning her minutely about how she had spent the night, and what could be pleasant or beneficial to her. In the young girl’s frame of mind, this exaggerated solicitude caused her an impatience that led her to cut it short by asking permission to pick a bouquet. “Permission!” repeated the Countess, who protested; “but don’t you know that everything here belongs to you? Mow the flowerbed, my dear, if that will distract you. ” “Yes,” continued the Duke, with the same madrigal-like smile, “mademoiselle will remain with us, and that will take the place of all the flowers!” Honorine ran to the nearest clumps, so as not to hear any more. The Countess turned to de Gausson, who had until then listened to everything in silence. “You who are a connoisseur, show this dear child what is most beautiful ,” she said. Marcel bowed and joined Honorine. “Do you know that your niece is adorable?” said Mr. Darcy warmly, who had stopped to watch the young girl go away. “I hope to make a pleasant woman of her,” replied Madame de Luxeuil, whose admiring and caressing accent had suddenly given way to an indifferent tone. “Pleasant!” repeated the doctor; “but look at her; she is beautiful… as sin!…” “Do you think so? ” “And with that a cultivated mind! I talked with her last night for nearly an hour, and she ravished me. ” “Leave it, doctor; you are in ecstasy before all the little girls. ” “Not at all, Madame la Comtesse, not at all; I maintain that your niece is one of those privileged beings, equally favored by nature and by an excellent education. ” “My God!” She received the education of every convent. Mr. Darcy turned around. “What! of every convent,” he cried; “she was educated in a convent? ” “No doubt, at the Sacré-Cœur in Tours. ” “Are you sure? ” “What a question! I’m getting to it. ” “Why, yes, in fact, I remember now; she had been entrusted to the General of the Beguines. The unfortunate women! Another creature they will have stupefied! ” “For example!” cried Madame de Luxeuil, bursting into laughter, “you were just now praising the excellence of her education. ” “Because I didn’t know who had done it,” replied Mr. Darcy, a little disconcerted. “You understand that when one is not warned, one can confuse natural gifts with acquired ones!” The Countess smiled without replying. The doctor’s monomania was so well known that no one took any notice of it, and his declamations against Catholicism produced the effect of those nervous tics which make certain faces grimace, but which habit prevents us from noticing. The Marquis came to intervene; he succeeded in passing skillfully, by a mythological transition, from the convent to the Opera, and the discussion immediately transformed into one of those ramblings without follow-up, embroidered with scandal, which people of the world call a conversation. But a more intimate and more important interview had just begun, a few steps away, between Honorine and M. de Gausson. Chapter 10. The White Lamb. Obeying Madame de Luxeuil’s invitation, Marcel had first shown Honorine the rarest flowers, adding a few explanations; but he soon noticed that, while paying him polite attention, the young girl preferred to pick the less precious and better-known flowers. He remarked to her with a smile. “It’s because these are old friends,” replied Honorine, smiling in her turn; “I’ve known them since my childhood, and they have memory on their side, while the others have only their beauty. ” “Then I’ll be silent,” resumed de Gausson; “I would reproach myself for making the slightest attack on this fidelity of affection; but since you are looking for souvenirs, passing to the other side of this arbor, you will find an arbour of clematis and Bengal roses like that of the Sacré-Coeur. ” “How do you know that?” asked Honorine, astonished. ” As far as I remember,” resumed Marcel, “it was to be found on the right of the large courtyard, a few steps from a basket of hydrangeas… ” The young girl seemed stupefied. “But you visited the convent garden?” she cried. “I was a child,” continued de Gausson; “yet everything is still present to me. There was then, at the end of the garden, a small greenhouse covered with thatch. ” “It’s still there!” cried Honorine, happy to find someone who knew the place where she had been raised. “Further down, we saw beds for seedlings… ” “Exactly. Ah! You haven’t forgotten anything. ” “It’s because I, too, left a souvenir there,” said Marcel gently. This visit to the Sacred Heart is connected with one of the most charming sensations of my childhood. Honorine looked at him with an expression of timid curiosity. “Perhaps you had some relation at the convent?” she asked. “No one,” replied de Gausson; “but my mother knew the superior, and never failed to visit her when she passed through Tours. On one of these trips I accompanied her, and she took me with her. ” “A long time ago then? ” “I was about nine years old. The prioress, after giving me many caresses, called a little girl of five years at most, and sent us both to play in the enclosure. Early childhood has, even more than youth, those impulses of instinctive sympathy which form a friendship at first glance. After a few minutes the little girl and I loved each other without having yet had time to know each other. She showed me the whole park, showing me the cart in which she was pulled, the swing made for her, the little garden that was cultivated for her, and each time she repeated to me: “All this will now be for the two of us!” I tried to respond to this childish generosity with my games and caresses. I picked her up in my arms and ran, carrying her across the lawns; I picked the flowers that were too tall for her hands; I pushed the stones and brambles out of her way; I called her my little sister, and she answered by calling me her brother! Our intoxication of joy was interrupted only by the appearance of the Mother Superior and my mother. “They came to get you, perhaps?” asked Honorine, visibly interested in Marcel’s story. “Precisely,” he continued, “but at the first word of separation, the little girl seized me in both arms, crying out that she wanted to keep me, that I was her brother and that I had promised never to leave her again. All the reasoning and caresses of the prioress were at first useless. It was only on the promise of my soon return that she consented to calm down. But just as we were about to leave her, she suddenly escaped us and disappeared into the garden. ” “And she didn’t come back?” interrupted Honorine, whose curiosity seemed to increase with every moment. “On the contrary, she came back,” continued de Gausson, “but carrying in her little arms a bundle of the most beautiful plants in her garden, plucked in their flower, and she cried out, as she presented them to me: “Here, my brother, you will plant all this at home to remind you that you promised to come back. ” Honorine gave a slight cry. “I could not say what these words and this action made me feel,” added Marcel, “but my whole heart melted. I ran to the little girl and began to embrace her, sobbing. At that moment I would have sacrificed everything, left everything to remain near her. We had to be separated by force, and that same evening I left Tours with my mother. ” “And you never saw this child again?” said Honorine quickly, in whom the end of Marcel’s story seemed to have awakened a confused emotion. “Never,” said the young man sadly. “My mother died a few months later; I was sent to college, and I heard no more about the convent at Tours. Also, this encounter has retained all the characteristics of a childhood memory. Precise and complete as to what must have struck me then, it has remained incomplete in all the rest. I remember the place, the little girl’s words, her costume; but I could not say what her features were, and I do not know her name; All I remember is that the Superior called her the white lamb. Honorine dropped the flowers she had picked. “The white lamb!” she cried, “but it was me!” Marcel took a step back. “What!” he said, “that child with blond hair and a blue dress whom the prioress called her daughter?” “It was me!” Honorine continued; “only time has browned the hair and put an end to the vow that imposed on me the sky-colored garment; but the nickname that my predilection for the lamb represented in the painting of Saint John had given me, was preserved until my departure from the convent; you can ask my aunt. “Oh! I believe you!” interrupted de Gausson, who continued to look at her with a mixture of astonishment and joy, “yes, it must be you…
although grown, changed, I dare not say more beautiful, you might think it was vulgar flattery. Ah! this meeting must be counted among the unexpected joys and I should thank God for it! ” There was so much shock in the young man’s tone that Honorine herself was troubled by it: she could only find a few broken words to reply, and, to give herself some composure, she began to pick up the flowers that had fallen from her. Marcel watched her do this without thinking of helping her. He was completely moved by this unexpected recognition. “So, what we promised each other, chance has done,” he said after a moment of silence, “we see each other again! But alone together, and deprived of the protectors we had at our first meeting. ” “Ah! that is the sad cloud placed between the present and all memories,” said Honorine, whose eyes became moist. “Yes,” continued de Gausson, “and that is not the only change brought about by time. Then we were children whose hearts opened without constraint; now we have grown up and must keep them closed. Fifteen years ago I was the brother of the white lamb; today I am nothing more than a stranger to Mademoiselle Honorine Louis. ” “I cannot regard my aunt’s friends as strangers,” observed the young girl with embarrassment. “Ah! I do not wish to rely on that title,” resumed de Gausson quickly; I am too new an acquaintance to dare to number myself among Madame de Luxeuil’s friends, and it is not to her that I can owe the kindness of her niece!… No, I only want to appeal to the memories exchanged just now, to those few hours spent in the convent gardens, to those plucked flowers that you came to offer me and for which I have not yet paid you the sacrifice! It is in the name of this past that I beg you to rediscover a little of your former sympathy, not to confuse me with the crowd of admirers that the world will send you, to receive me at last as a candidate for your friendship. I ask nothing more, and if my prayer seems strange to you, do not dwell on its form, nor on the place where I address it to you, nor on the time chosen! There are moments when one cannot retain what one feels; believe only in its sincerity! “I believe it, sir,” said Honorine, whose gaze had rested with an almost involuntary confidence on the young man’s noble features. “Then that is enough,” he continued in a tone of suppressed emotion; “as for the friendship I solicit, it is up to me to deserve it. ” He bowed respectfully and joined Madame de Luxeuil, who was returning with the Marquis and the doctor. Marcel de Gausson was faithful to the kind of program he had imposed on himself. Although he sought every opportunity to see Honorine and openly showed his attachment to the young girl, his manners never strayed beyond the bounds of the most scrupulous propriety; his assiduity had something calm and respectful about it that could give rise to no other idea than that of a disinterested friendship. He did not flatter Honorine, he never spoke to her of himself; He showed himself to be devoted without noise and tender without softness. Seeing him near the orphan, with the somewhat exaggerated gravity of young men who have taken life seriously, one would have said one of those elder brothers whose affection unites the double character of father and friend. Such, moreover, was the simplicity and visible loyalty of his manner of being towards the young girl, that one hardly seemed to notice it; those who noticed it saw in it only an originality for which Marcel’s previous conduct had prepared them. This was not, in fact, the first time that he had departed from received habits to naively follow his inclinations. De Gausson had long since acquired, by dint of naturalness, a reputation for eccentricity: but this eccentricity remained so modest, so inoffensive that no one thought of attacking him, and there was so much grace in his uprightness that it was forgiven. His courage and his skill were, moreover, known in the world of idlers who surrounded him: it was known that if necessary he could defend his loyalty against sarcasm or slander, and this assurance gave the malevolent a prudent indulgence: in all, Marcel de Gausson had managed to carve out for himself a truly exceptional position; he had been able to remain sincere, pure and devoted with impunity in the midst of a society of lies, vice and egoism. Honorine, who had at first accepted his friendship with a little reserve, ended up abandoning herself to it with complete confidence and finding in it an inexpressible sweetness. She had arrived at that moment in life when the hearts of young girls, barely emerging from the limbo of adolescence, prepare themselves, so to speak, for love by the exaltations of friendship. That of M. de Gausson was enough to occupy Honorine’s soul without awakening in her any troubles or remorse; she found in it all that she desired at that time. Marcel became her advisor in all her uncertainties; she questioned him as she would once have questioned her adoptive mother; she needed his approval to approve herself. However, there existed an even more venerated confidant, to whom she addressed her most intimate confessions: it was her mother’s portrait! She had brought it down from the storage room where it had been relegated and placed it in her room, opposite her bed. But not wanting habit to destroy the power of this sweet image, she covered it with a curtain that hid it entirely. It was only in the evening, when she was alone and ready to give in to sleep, that the young girl came half-naked, like a child who craves her mother’s kiss, to kneel before the uncovered portrait. Then, her eye fixed on this young and tender face, she would quietly review her actions and thoughts of the day, asking after each one: “Mother, are you content?” And her conscience would give the dear image, according to the memory she had just invoked, an expression of encouragement or blame! Thus supported by a double protection, Honorine let herself flow without anxiety with the current of her new life. The daily reports had finally softened Madame de Luxeuil’s exaggerations of tenderness, which had imperceptibly transformed themselves into a rather indifferent benevolence; but the complete freedom left to Honorine was enough for her. Happy, she did not rigorously seek the part that her aunt could have in this happiness, and she took it into account as if she had contributed to it otherwise than by allowing it. The one who had aroused her suspicions against the countess had not, moreover, sent her any warning. The first time Honorine had thought she recognized him, while walking, in a bourgeois costume, and a second time, at the very door of the villa, disguised as a peddler ; but on both occasions he had disappeared so quickly that the young girl herself doubted the reality of these apparitions. As for the scene in the portrait, she remembered it only with anguish, like a confused and painful memory. The further she moved away from the moment when this scene had taken place, the more the emotion it had caused her faded, and the more inexplicable the circumstances seemed to her. There were even times when she went back on what she had believed then and questioned Marc’s right to her trust. Chapter 11. Sketches of High Society. The change in Madame de Luxeuil’s manners and Arthur’s conduct further contributed to depriving the young girl of all distrust. Her cousin, in particular, showed her a familiar friendship whose frankness evidently excluded any idea of a trap being set. From the first moment with her, he had adopted the free tone of a childhood companion, and Honorine, at first astonished, had ended up accepting it as a privilege that the world granted, no doubt, to kinship. Madame de Luxeuil, so scrupulous about everything that concerned custom, justified this familiarity by authorizing it. She allowed Arthur to follow her everywhere and to take, on every occasion, near his cousin, the role of attendant cavalier. The young man fulfilled these functions with an uneven humor, appearing sometimes eager, sometimes distracted. He was, moreover, one of those natures who hide their vulgarity under forms of conventional elegance; peasants wrapped in aristocracy whose distinction is on the outside and coarseness in the heart. Solely dominated by his selfish sensuality, vain without pride, mocking all that was generous, having neither the noble repugnance that makes one flee from evil at the moment of committing it, nor the shame that makes one hide it when it has been committed, he personified that rich, titled, useless youth , whose faculties are corrupted by inaction; a kind of human cesspool that attracts to itself all that is weak or miserable, because by stirring up its filth one finds gold there! As for wit, Arthur had some, but of the easiest kind. He drew all his gaiety from malevolence; all his depth from contempt for men. Believing only in vices, it was always in them that he sought the means and the cause, and this procedure was justified each day by the experience of the environment in which he lived. However, this intelligence, so well guarded, was easy to surprise from one side. Foresighted for evil, she was taken unawares by good. She no longer saw, she no longer understood: for her, a disinterested heart was like a vase without handles; she did not know which way to take it, she doubted and remained stunned. Unfortunately, Honorine had neither the opportunity nor the will to study her cousin’s character, and, of all that we have just said, she only perceived a few outward signs. Most vices touch so closely on qualities that to recognize them, one must have the will to see them. Arthur’s cynicism, restrained in front of his cousin, could seem to her to be bland; his egotism, too often justified, resembled experience, his perpetual irony struck so many foolishnesses and wickednesses that one could take it for justice; Honorine had no interest in looking closely into this soul; the occupation of her life was on another side. Everything was therefore limited to an instinctive indifference to her cousin. The latter had undertaken, shortly after the young girl’s arrival, to teach her to ride, and these lessons had become the occasion for more frequent rapprochements. Honorine put great ardor into these exercises, which temporarily removed her from the inaction imposed on women, and allowed her to try her audacity: she was also engaged in it by the example of several young women, friends of the Countess, who came to Bagatelle; for Madame de Luxeuil, always eager for the pleasures of the world, and wishing to continue to participate in them, at least as a spectator, had renounced the company of her contemporaries to surround herself with fashionable women who preserved in her salon the brilliance, gaiety and liveliness which beauty and youth communicate to everything. Among these regulars, two in particular deserve special mention; They were Madame la Marquise de Biezi and Madame des Brotteaux. The first, a distant relative of the Countess, had married a very rich Italian, a fanatical tourist who could be found everywhere except at home . He had traveled successively to the five parts of the world, not to study them, nor even to see them, but in order to visit the least accessible mountains; that was his specialty. In 1816, he had climbed Mont Blanc; in 1818, he had reached the top of Cedar Plateau, in Lebanon; in 1821, he had explored the Kamberg at the Cape of Good Hope; in 1823, he had succeeded in crossing the Andes. But he still had to cross the Dawalagiri, 8,529 meters above sea level. Without the Dawalagiri, all other ascents were in vain; the Dawalagiri alone could make him the first mountain climber in the civilized world; he hesitated for a long time, held back by the difficulty of such an undertaking, and excited by the glory of accomplishing it! Finally, glory won him; he left for Tibet, taking with him the wishes of the Marquise and a note for the purchase of six cashmeres. No news had yet been received from him since his departure, but Madame Lea de Biezi consoled herself by plunging herself, with furious ardor , into the whirlwind of the world. She was a woman of twenty-four , tall, slender, and of that sovereign beauty with which art would delight to adorn Aspasia, Cleopatra, or Diana of Poitiers. Her whole being revealed resolution and vigor, enveloped in grace. Her eye was proud, her voice resonant, her gait firm, her language clear and bold. Obeying her whim alone, she shrank neither from the barrier of duty nor from that of custom. Thus, Doctor Darcy compared her to those magnificent mares of the desert, unstoppable by sand, rocks, or mountains, and who, with flowing manes and open nostrils, rush wherever the breeze, refreshed by the springs or perfumed by the pastures, calls them. Her cavalier then was Prince Dovrinsky, a Polish refugee, whose brilliant courage had made her famous in the last insurrection against Russia. He was found everywhere Léa appeared, jealous and gloomy, but obedient to the slightest gesture. Obviously unhappy with the bond that held him, he was powerless to break it. The Marquise, who knew this, took pleasure in testing her power on him. Fanciful and curious, she played with this tame lion to see how far his patience could go; she goaded him with suspicion, shook his chain, excited his anger; then, at the first roar, she signaled, and the lion lay down at her feet. This terrible game made Madame Hortense des Brotteaux, a friend of the Marquise, tremble, but of a completely opposite character. As much as the latter had activity and command, Hortense showed as much languor and submission. To see her rich form, her large black eye and her beautiful face with a smooth complexion, which her brown hair framed with thick hair, one would have believed in a strong and willful character; but, on closer inspection, one could see some cloud of softness surrounding her whole person. Her hair, so abundant, had no attitude of its own; the lines of this charming face floated uncertainly, and the look of her large black eyes was drowned in an expression of voluptuous timidity. In reality, Hortense belonged to those submissive natures, endowed with a sort of innate aptitude for servitude, and who accept yokes as points of support. Nothing would have been easier for M. des Brotteaux than to shape this inconsistent will to his liking and to make himself the absolute king of this directionless life; but M. des Brotteaux was a member of the Court of Auditors and did not have the leisure to see to such an education. In marrying Hortense, he had intended to take a wife who was fully educated and whom he would no longer have to worry about. Maintaining his influence and the cares required by his political advancement left him not a single moment for such details. He therefore abandoned Madame des Brotteaux to her own inspirations, that is to say, to those of the first man who came along, and this first man who came along found himself precisely the man needed to dominate Hortense’s vacillating character . M. de Cillart was a former brigadier bodyguard, and Breton, a double reason for having a firm will and a taste for command: also, He soon became the absolute master of Madame des Brotteaux’s actions, thoughts, and feelings. She obeyed his impulses, sometimes hesitantly, but always without rebellion. M. de Cillart’s tyrannies even had a sort of charm for her; they were a shock that occasionally tore her from her apathy. Thanks to him, she had, at times, the pleasure of crying or becoming half-angry; without M. de Cillart, she would hardly have been able to distinguish whether she was dead or alive. Among many other fantasies, the former brigadier of the bodyguards had that of transforming Madame des Brotteaux into an Amazon. For some time he had forced her to ride a horse and to do, with Madame de Biezi, a kind of race to the bell tower, through the woods and the heaths. Honorine had been on some of these rides in which she had tried, in turn, to rival the Marquise in audacity and to reassure Madame des Brotteaux. On her return to Paris, she continued to keep them company, when the sun shone over Boulogne and allowed fashion to meet in the long avenues lined with people and restaurants, which were decorated with the name of wood. She was returning from one of these walks on a beautiful October day, and the horses, which had picked up their pace, walked a short distance apart , following the roadway of the Avenue de la Muette. At the head advanced Madame de Biezi, her complexion animated by the air still harsh despite the sun, her eyes shining, her nostrils dilated, magnificently beautiful and bold, on her Arabian horse, which was quivering with impatience. At her side walked Prince Dovrinski, whose tall figure formed a singular contrast with the anxious and almost fearful expression of his features. A little behind, and parallel to Madame de Luxeuil’s carriage, stood Honorine and de Gausson, de Cillart and Madame des Brotteaux. The latter, barely recovered from the gallop to which the brigadier of the bodyguards had forced her horse, still seemed to be firming herself in the saddle and gazing with terror at the space she had just crossed, while her tyrant abruptly mocked her for her cowardice. Arthur, Marquier and Doctor Darcy followed at some distance. Finally, a little further on, came several mounted couriers and the carriage of the Marquise de Biezi. The conversation was very varied on the different points of the elegant caravan. Short and rare at the head, more animated around Madame de Luxeuil’s carriage, it became noisy in the last group of riders who were far enough away from it not to be heard. “Have you seen how de Cillart is driving this poor Madame des Brotteaux?” Arthur asked the doctor. “She looks like a captain in training with his recruit. ” “Pardieu! I am sorry he has nothing to do with the Marchioness,” replied Mr. Darcy. “She is superbly energetic, that woman. She is the finest example of a bilio-sanguine temperament I have ever met. ” “The Marchioness is the Martin of gallantry,” Arthur continued; “she tames wild beasts. ” “It is certain that this poor prince looks like a tiger tamed in spite of himself. ” “Vexation and jealousy are eating away at him. ” “He has changed so much lately that I suspect he has a liver problem.” Arthur nodded profoundly. “Well! That’s what the love of great ladies brings, my dear doctor,” he said. “One must always play the role of Dovrinsky or the brigadier with them. Be a tyrant or tyrannized, and, in any case, completely taken. Such an affair is a real profession; you no longer have either time or freedom. I tried it, and the day I left that penal colony, I swore I would never go back. ” “And that’s when you turned to the theater?” asked Mr. Darcy, laughing. “Precisely, doctor. There, at least, one needs neither care nor precautions; we make love outside the law! On each side we preserve our independence; there is no reputation to protect, no false scruples to combat, no conventions to respect. We can be without fear, in a good mood and in bad taste. Also, you see, doctor, I would not give Clotilde for all our marquises. “Because she costs you more!” cried Aristide Marquier, laughing, who had finally persuaded Lucifer to join our two interlocutors. Arthur threw him a sideways glance. “That is only what strikes the banker,” he said, with disdainful arrogance; “for him, a woman is like everything else, a question of money, and he goes for the cheapest. ” “Not at all, not at all,” resumed Marquier seriously; “you know, my dear fellow, that I have principles in this respect!… I do not understand an affair that leads to expenses!” The most attractive woman who accepted a gift would become unbearable to me. It may be an excessive delicacy; but one can’t change one’s ways… “Unfortunately!” observed de Luxeuil, enveloping the fat little capitalist in an ironic look. “Finally,” continued Marquier warmly, “I need a disinterested choice and I want to be loved for myself. ” “That’s why no one loves him!” added Arthur, addressing the doctor. The banker shook his head discreetly. “You know that on this subject, I always refrain from replying, ” he said seriously. “You take pride in publishing your loves, I take pride in hiding them. Only be certain, my good man, that Aristide Marquier’s affairs of the heart are in no worse condition than his banking affairs. ” “Speaking of banking,” interrupted Arthur, in whom a memory seemed to suddenly awaken; Do you know a fellow named Clément Raimbaut who calls himself a banker? –Raimbaut!… certainly; he is a former commission agent in Rouennerie, who has joined forces with a former butcher, to engage in usury. Do you have anything to settle with him? –I’m afraid so. He once advanced me a sum for which I subscribed notes to him. –Ah! devil! and their maturity has arrived. –They were, I believe, presented yesterday: besides, I must have notes on the whole affair, and I would be very happy to take your advice. –What then! I am at your orders, my good man; we are having supper together tomorrow at Clotilde’s; if you like, I will go and fetch you, and we will examine… –Tomorrow, no, I promised to be at Lord Durfort’s errand, but if you could, today, take me to the hotel… –Willingly. Until the time of the Bourse I am free…–But, look , here is de Cillart who has put this poor Madame des Brotteaux back to the gallop. Pardieu! I would be curious to see the victim’s face.– It’s easy; let’s join her. The two riders left followed by the doctor, and reached the head of the cavalcade, so that de Gausson and Honorine found themselves, in their turn, alone behind. Without the young man and the young girl having noticed, the carriage had gotten a little ahead of them, and they were walking abreast, at the small pace of their horses, continuing one of those charming conversations which are, at once, reveries and outpourings. It was with Marcel alone that Honorine found the opportunity for those exchanges of feelings and thoughts which leave behind them a memory; for he alone had the tender serenity which interests the soul by uplifting it. Also, however brilliant the minds of most of the Countess’s regulars were, the young girl preferred Marcel’s gravity to them; the others knew only how to talk, while he, he talked! However, for some time now, his speech seemed less calm and less free. Often, even in the midst of his most expansive outbursts, a cloud passed over his brow, and he fell into a silent and embarrassed sadness . Honorine, worried, then resorted to every means to tear him away from it. Appealing to this kind of proposed fraternity by de Gausson, she pressed him with questions, she showed herself alternately displeased, distressed; she reproached him for lacking confidence! The young man struggled with effort against the testimonies of this friendship, but his very resistance excited him more and more each day. Thus both found themselves, with different dispositions, on that slippery slope which leads to love, and, while de Gausson resisted, in spite of himself and with difficulty, Honorine, ignorant of the danger, dragged him along without noticing it. The walk they had just taken had kept them separated until the moment when they both remained isolated, behind Madame de Luxeuil’s carriage. However, the conversation they had started seemed at first foreign to what was the ordinary subject of their quarrels. Animated by the race and happy with Marcel’s presence, the young girl naively admired everything that caught her ear or her eyes. “Yes,” she said with joyful abandon, “I love the noise and the movement that announce the approach of Paris. These carts hurrying by , these passers-by running, these workmen calling to each other, everything interests me and occupies me; it seems to me that here men live more than elsewhere. ” “I am like you,” said Marcel, “but this sight, instead of rejoicing, always saddens me. ” “Why is that? ” “Because it makes me involuntarily turn inward. I cannot look at the activity of the crowd without thinking that each of these men is carrying out his task and stirring up his grain of dust in the world, while I pass by, idle and useless in the midst of universal labor. Then I feel seized by a sort of contempt for the unoccupied existence into which chance has thrown me! “Can’t you escape from it? All careers are open to you. ” “Except those to which my birth forbids me! For each one here below carries his original burden.” If the people inherit poverty and ignorance, the nobility receives madness and pride. Have I not what is called a name to bear, that is to say, the obligation to follow only certain marked roads? Even to travel them would require an education, habits that have not been given to me. Those who made me a man taught me only idleness; they put their wisdom and my honor into it. Unfit for anything, thanks to their care, I can never claim the joy of raising, stone by stone, like so many others, my makeshift edifice. Honorine looked at de Gausson with a sort of anxious astonishment. “My God! are you ambitious?” she asked. “Ambient for happiness,” replied Marcel, smiling. “And to be happy, you need this makeshift edifice that you regret? ” “Yes.
” “What do you want to do with it?” De Gausson seemed to hesitate. “I would like,” he said, after a moment of silence, “I would like to be able to offer it to the woman I would have preferred. ” “So it would be to enrich her?” “No, but to have the right to choose freely, to speak without fear; it would be so that a loyal affection would not be exposed to appearing an odious calculation; so as not to be obliged finally to escape the shame of suspicion by renouncing happiness. ” “And why renounce it? ” ” Because I have no right to it. The man born to be the benefactor and support of woman cannot, without lying to his duty, become the supported and the obliged; it is up to him to make a place for himself in life, to offer a part of it to the one he has chosen and to give her in work, in devotion, in courage, what she returns to him in charm and love. ” And as he noticed the movement Honorine had made: “But, pardon!” he added, smiling; I am letting myself go to a real confession, and you must find me very bold. “Bold? No,” said the young girl, moved. “Quite mad, at least? ” “No, no. ” “What then? ” “Quite proud! ” Marcel remained silent for a moment. “Perhaps,” he said, “but don’t be too severe on pride, for, at the In the midst of all our weaknesses and all our humiliations, it is the only vice that sustains us on an equal footing with virtue. The human soul is a place perpetually besieged; for salvation one must accept all defenders, without inquiring into their names or their origins. “So,” resumed Honorine, who seemed to follow her own idea more than that of the young man, “your pride would silence your very preferences?… Because others make a woman’s wealth a merit, you would make it a title of exclusion; you would refuse even her affection? ” “Why ask me what I would do?” resumed de Gausson briskly; “who can guarantee that one’s feelings and principles will always be in accord ? What good is it, moreover, to suppose an impossible temptation? Am I then one of those who know how to awaken these irresistible sympathies?… ” “You don’t answer!” observed Honorine with a sort of impatience. “Because I cannot admit your supposition.” “Admit it, I want it, and answer. ” “Answer!” said Marcel, who for some moments had been struggling, with evident effort, against his own impulse. “Answer!” he repeated , looking at Honorine, whose eyes continued to question him. ” Well!” He broke off again. “Well? I’ll wait!” insisted Honorine. “Well!” said Marcel in a lower voice, but with a deep accent, ” my resolutions, my fears, my pride… I would forget everything… for the woman… who would resemble you! ” The young girl shuddered with surprise and shock. In her naive anxiety, she had wanted to wring a retraction from de Gausson without foreseeing that this retraction might entail a confession. A sudden blush covered her features; she looked around her with unease; but the interval which separated her from the carriage gave no reason to fear that Marcel had been overheard. She turned her eyes towards him, wanted to murmur a few words, and, seeming suddenly to give in to some frightened confusion, she raised the bridle of her horse and quickly joined the Countess. They had arrived at the roundabout of the Champs-Élysées, where the latter was taking leave of her walking companions. The Marquise and Madame des Brotteaux headed towards the Faubourg Saint-Germain, and Messrs. Darcy and de Gausson continued on to the Louvre district. As for Madame de Luxeuil, she turned by the Avenue de Marigny to reach the Faubourg Saint-Honoré with her niece, Arthur and Marquier. The Countess’s residence, included in the clump of buildings which separates the Rue Duras from the Rue d’Anjou, had a double facade like most of the mansions built under Louis XV. One opened onto a flowerbed, recently laid out as an English garden, the other onto an entrance courtyard, closed on the right and left by the service buildings. It was in this courtyard that the Countess got out of the carriage, while Arthur helped Honorine to dismount. The latter rushed up the stairs, following in her aunt’s footsteps, and de Luxeuil was returning to Marquier, when a man wearing glasses and dressed in black, who seemed to be waiting at the door of the lodge, advanced to meet him. “Is it indeed Monsieur Arthur de Luxeuil that I have the honor of addressing?” he asked, hat in hand, and with a respectful smile. “What do you want from me?” said Arthur without stopping. “Pardon,” continued the man in black, searching in one of his pockets, “if monsieur could grant me a moment… “Quick, I’m in a hurry.” “It’s a matter of business…” “Afterwards? ” “A matter of notes…” “subscribed to Monsieur Raimbaut. ” “Raimbaut!” cried Arthur, stopping short. “So you’ve come for this payment?” “Of twelve thousand seven hundred and forty-three francs,” continued the man with the glasses, who had taken several papers from his wallet. “We already had the honor of presenting ourselves yesterday, but as Monsieur was absent, I received orders to call this morning… ” “That is to say, you are a bailiff, and you’ve come for the protest!” “In the event that Monsieur does not deem it appropriate to honor his signature… ” De Luxeuil measured the bailiff with an almost threatening look. “Wait,” he said abruptly. And advancing towards Marquier, who had just handed Lucifer over to a servant, he put an arm through his and led him aside, near a lean-to serving as a woodshed. Their conversation continued for some time in low voices. At the first words spoken by Arthur, the banker had seemed to protest and defend himself; but a new confidence seemed to suddenly calm him down; there was an exchange of rapid explanations between him and de Luxeuil, after which Marquier, convinced, ordered the bailiff to follow him, to receive payment for his notes, while Arthur returned to the hotel. Scarcely had they both disappeared, when a man in olive-colored velvet trousers, with bare arms and a saw in his hand, appeared at the door of the pyre: it was Marc, the peasant from the Forge des Trois-Buttes, and the custodian of the fragment of the ring given to him by the Baroness! He had seen everything that had just happened, and, among the words exchanged between de Luxeuil and the banker, he had distinguished the name of Honorine! He stopped at first near the threshold, appearing to hesitate over what he should do, reflected for a few moments, then, as if struck by a ray of light, he hastily laid down the saw he was holding, picked up his leather cap and his messenger’s jacket, crossed the courtyard of the hotel, and headed quickly towards the Rue des Morts. Chapter 12. A House in the Rue des Morts. Anyone who has studied the working-class neighborhoods of Paris has necessarily noticed the striking relationship that exists between the external appearance of each of them and the nature of its inhabitants. There is an Arab proverb that says that if you gave a tortoise a snail shell, it would find room for all four of its legs. Now, what is only a supposition for the amphibious animal is reality itself for man. Such is in fact his power of appropriation that he ends up modifying everything around him, according to his habits and tastes. Also, for those who look closely, in the situation of a neighborhood, in the physiognomy of its buildings, in the nature of its shops, in the choice of merchandise, there are a thousand revelations that cannot deceive. One guesses the instincts of the population by seeing what their needs are. Even the community of miseries cannot erase these distinctive marks: there are often, between two equally poor neighborhoods, contrasts visible to the least attentive eye. Compare, for example, the City with Saint-Martin-des-Champs. On both sides you will find the same poverty, the same abandonment, and yet, what a difference! The houses of the City with their dark entrances, their windows always closed, piled one upon the other, seem to have no other purpose than to hide their inhabitants from the light of day; they are less homes than dens. There, the narrow streets are lined only with half-hidden rogomists, tobacconists with frosted windows, taverns without signs, tobacconists run by men and reading rooms whose shutters , adorned with illustrated posters, present only scenes of murder and images of death. No noise of trade announcing work; no rumble of carts proving the activity of commercial transactions; no children on the thresholds! But everywhere, idle men pass or accost each other, women in elegant rags grouped before the counters of the consolation merchants, and, from time to time, a carefully closed cab which brushes one of the dark doorways, stops for a moment, then sets off again, without anyone being able to say whether it has taken or left someone. But it is especially at night that the City takes on a sinister aspect. Most of the shops, closed at eight o’clock, leave the streets with no other light than that of the street lamps, which the wind swings and makes squeal. Only here and there are a few wine merchants’ lanterns or tobacco glow dully in the middle of the night fog, while in every dark recess appears, like a ghost, some woman dressed in rags, who calls you in a hoarse voice, or some man on the lookout, who seems to be waiting for prey, his back against the wall and both hands under his bud. At Saint-Martin-des-Champs, none of this! The streets are wide, the houses flooded with light, the thresholds covered with children playing and calling to each other. At the open windows the laundry of each household dries, testimony to order and economy as much as to poverty. Under each whitened rag climbs the velvety nasturtium, the iridescent morning glories , and the sweet pea. Songs mingle with the sound of hammers; women surround the milkmaids, enter the fruiterer’s, or return from the fountains. It is still poverty, no doubt, but courageous and without shame; It is poverty that shows itself, because it has nothing to reproach itself for, and it has lost none of the human instincts; poverty loving the sun, flowers and children! In the City you found the vices created or badly fought by a selfish society; in Saint-Martin-des-Champs it is only the needs that it neglects to satisfy, and the sufferings that it forgets to alleviate. There we have a sewer that could be dried up, here a field of wheat that no one wants to cultivate well; but, such as they are, the sewer spreads its harmful influences and communicates death, while the field of wheat produces its harvest! Now, in this district of Saint-Martin-des-Champs, of which we have tried to give an idea, there is a little-known street, although it connects at their ends the suburbs of Saint-Martin and Temple; it is the Rue des Morts. Despite its gloomy name, the Rue des Morts is not at all sad, and its workers’ houses can even be cited among the least badly maintained and the best ventilated. One of them in particular stood out at the time when the events reported in our story took place. It consisted of only two floors, and had as its entrance a carriage entrance whose elegance would have led one to believe it was a bourgeois dwelling rather than a workers’ residence. This had not been its original purpose either; but the master mason who had built it, not finding suitable tenants, had decided to make it, as he put it, a convent for beggars. Reserving the ground floor for himself, next to which stretched a rather large building site, he had rented the rest, in separate rooms, to poor devils who had to pay him their rent by the week, and to whom he never granted the slightest respite; for Master Laurent, like many successful workers, was pitiless towards those who had been less fortunate than he. Favored by iron health and by that persistent activity which succeeds more surely than a broad intelligence, he had successively become a day laborer, then a master, then an entrepreneur, and had ended up enriching himself. Also, strong in his success, he constantly armed himself with it against his former companions. To all complaints, he answered only one thing: “Do as I do!” It was the reasoning of the frog escaping the hawk by diving into the water and calling out to the wren to imitate him; but Master Laurent had not yet come to know that in this division of professions which our society leaves to chance, aptitude and success cannot be a voluntary fact, but a rare exception. In any case, the master mason’s demands had resulted in ridding him of all the bad payers who had been successively replaced by quiet, orderly people whose rent was never long in coming. This elite corps of tenants, as Master Laurent called them, who, in his capacity as a sergeant in the National Guard, was fond of military images, had as his quartermaster and quartermaster Mr. Brousmiche, known as the Mountain, a little hunchback who fulfilled the duties of porter in the house. Condemned to ridicule by his infirmity, Brousmiche had taken life on the side of resignation: it would have been difficult to find a more harmless and conciliatory character. As, according to his own words, no woman had ever been able to look at him without laughing, he had resigned himself to celibacy, and had concentrated all his affections on a cat and a goldfinch, Lolo and Fanfan, who served as family. Unfortunately, all his efforts to establish a fraternal friendship between his two protégés had been useless until then, and he saw with sorrow the story of Abel and Cain repeating itself before his eyes. Several times already, the feathered Abel had almost fallen into the clutches of fratricide, and Brousmiche had just prevented a new act of this kind, when a young woman in a bonnet and wrapped in a tartan, entered the lodge, a cardboard box in her hand. She found the hunchback standing before his cat, to whom he was addressing the most pathetic reproaches for his new attempt. “What,” cried the young woman, who had stopped at the door, “did that monster Lolo want to pluck the goldfinch again? ” “Don’t talk to me about it , Madame Charles,” said the hunchback, putting his hand to his Greek skullcap, out of a mechanical habit of politeness; “the poor fellow will make me die of grief. ” “But he must be beaten,” said the grisette, approaching the tomcat, as if she wanted to add example to advice. The hunchback placed himself before his cat. “Excuse me, Madame Charles,” he said, putting out his hand with a doctoral air: “but you know that blows do not enter into my ideas of education. ” “Bah!” replied the young woman, laughing: “the education of a cat! You respect animals too much, Monsieur Brousmiche.” “In any case, I’m not the first,” resumed the hunchback, who prided himself on reading, and who had, above his stove, a shelf covered with mismatched volumes; “the Egyptians of the pyramids worshipped all kinds of animals.” “True!” interrupted Madame Charles. “My God, we shouldn’t be surprised at anything,” continued Brousmiche with an indulgent air; “we still see such funny things. You know? For example, the English are a people who can pass for civilized. ” “I believe, they are the ones who make the best needles. ” “And knives, then! And fruit!… We owe them the pears of England. ” “Well! What, do they worship animals too? ” “Not exactly; but I was reading in a newspaper the other day that there was a law among them which forbade coachmen to whip their horses. ” “Is it possible!” And how then can cabs work? “Horses are delicate, you see, Madame Charles, you only have to talk to them. You have no idea how touchy animals are. It’s like women… beyond compare… But pardon me, I’ll leave you here, without offering you a chair and without even taking your box. ” “Oh! Gauze, it’s not heavy,” said the young woman, placing the box on the stove, “I went to get the week’s work.” “What about your fake flowers? And are they still going well? ” “Why, not badly.” “Come, so much the better, it’s only right that good people prosper, especially when they have responsibilities like you, Madame Charles. ” “You say that because of my son… poor cherub! It’s true he has a nurse who pays fifteen francs, but I want him to want for nothing, Monsieur Brousmiche, it’s bad enough not to have been able to feed him myself. Dear love!” I would have liked to give him my blood, you see. As she spoke, the grisette’s voice was moved and her eyes moist. The porter nodded approvingly. “Yes, yes, you have a heart of gold, Madame Charles,” he said; “if everyone were like you, we wouldn’t see such sad things… like, for example, women who always have a whip in their hand. ” “As proof, Madame Lecoq, my neighbor? It’s true that she is very wicked… and it’s not only with her children. The day before yesterday She attacked me again, because she said that by coming to my house they had soiled the landing. She reproached me for not being married to Charles. Brousmiche raised his eyes and hands to heaven. “If one can upset a true sheep of the good Lord!” he murmured. “Oh! she has not upset me,” continued the young woman, whose trembling voice belied the words; “as I told her, if I am not married to Charles, I behave no less like an honest woman… ” “Ah! Lord! Speaking of Monsieur Charles,” resumed the hunchback, “I don’t know, in truth, where my head is this evening; I have a letter from him here… ” “A letter from Charles!” cried the grisette, “ah! give it, Monsieur Brousmiche, give it!” She quickly took the letter and looked at the address. “Yes, yes, it is indeed from him,” she said, trembling with joy; See what pretty handwriting he has, oh! poor dear… She touched the paper with her lips, then looking at the hunchback, half ashamed, half laughing: “You must think I’m crazy, Monsieur Brousmiche,” she said, “but what can you do, I love him so much, and then… he’s the father of my little Jules! ” “That’s understandable, Madame Charles, believe me, that’s understandable,” said the porter, putting his hand to his chest, with an expression of sensitivity that would have been touching if the disgrace of all his movements had not made it grotesque. The young woman had opened the letter and begun to read it: Brousmiche, with a tact of delicacy that one would not have expected from his education or his class, turned his head away to leave it freer and affected to tie up the ears of millet with which his goldfinch’s cage was furnished. But the grisette suddenly cried out: “Ah! what happiness!” He will come today! “Who?” asked the hunchback, “Monsieur Charles? ” “Yes, my good Monsieur Brousmiche,” continued Françoise, hastening to fold up her letter and pick up her box; “quickly, quickly, I must go upstairs… my room must be in disarray. ” “And then,” said Brousmiche, in a tone of friendly mockery, “must I get ready? ” “Certainly,” cried the grisette, “for whom would one make oneself beautiful, if it were not for the man one loves? Besides, it pleases Charles to see me well dressed; it raises my spirits in his eyes, and for that, you see, Monsieur Brousmiche, I would agree to eat only once every two days. But you make me gossip and I am wasting my time! Goodbye Monsieur Brousmiche, goodbye my little Fanfan; as for you, Monsieur Lolo, I say nothing to you. Goodbye, see you tomorrow.” She had lit her candlestick from the hunchback’s lamp and nimbly climbed the stairs, stopping only on the third floor. As she was about to open the door, she seemed struck by a memory. “Ah! my God!” she murmured in a low voice, “I was going to forget that poor Mr. Michel; I hope Charles doesn’t arrive right away! ” She entered quickly, put down her box, opened a cupboard under the curtains which contained all her cooking utensils, took out a stove, lit it, and on it she placed a brown earthenware saucepan filled with milk. While it was heating, she took off her tartan, took off her bonnet, and began her toilette. Madame Charles, who was also called Mademoiselle Françoise, by her personal name, was a beautiful girl of about twenty-three, whose whole appearance announced health, strength, and kindness. Although her figure was supple and slender, her features delicate and her complexion velvety white, there was, in her whole person, something calm, simple and awkwardly graceful which gave her a sort of peasant beauty. Just by looking at her, one felt she was incapable of the most innocent coquetry. Seeing in everything only what was right before her eyes, she presented herself with the faults and with the gifts that God had given her, without adding anything and without hiding anything. With her one could neither hope for the pleasure of discovery, nor fear the disappointments of examination; at first glance one had seen everything. This native rectitude gave her a charm that was, so to speak, restful. One experienced in looking at her the same soft and serene sensation that the appearance of a lake gives, whose peaceful waters reflect the woods, the flowers and the sky. After hastily fixing her hair, Françoise put on a muslin dress with pink flowers and a white wimple, whose rustic and Sunday elegance harmonized marvelously with her naive physiognomy. She hung around her neck a small gold cross held by a narrow velvet, added two mother-of-pearl pendants to her earrings and clasped coral bracelets to her wrists. Thus adorned with her richest possessions, she turned in every direction to see herself entirely in her little mirror, a foot square, ran her hand several times over her hair, and, finally satisfied, hastened to put everything in order around her. Then running to her stove, she poured the boiling milk into a white porcelain cup which she placed on a plate, added a small loaf of bread, the only silver spoon she possessed, and left her room to go up to the attic. Chapter 13. An Old Friend of the Human Race. Master Laurent had reserved all the attic rooms for himself, except one. It was towards this that Françoise went. She arrived at a small fir door which was not painted, knocked gently, and on the answer: “Come in,” she lifted the latch and slipped into the attic. This one, placed at the end of the house, under the lowest part of the roof, hardly deserved that name, and that of attic would, in every respect, have been more appropriate. Tiled with mismatched bricks that the master mason had chosen to use, and paneled only at sill height, it revealed everywhere else the bare framework and tiles between which the evening wind slid, as the oscillations of the oil lamp hanging below proved. The latter lit a large table covered with figures, the copying of which provided the livelihood of the master of the attic, and with plans and papers with which he occupied himself in his spare time. When Françoise entered, M. Michel (that was his name) was bent over a large map that he seemed to be studying. His head, bald at the top, but which still retained, lower down, a crown of white hair, presented a vast and harmonious development. His strongly accentuated features had an austere nobility and a sort of grandeur that struck one in spite of oneself. He was of medium height, thin and bent, but the vigor of his organization was still revealed beneath his green old age. Dressed in a pelisse of old form, and trimmed with furs now threadbare, but which had been precious, he stood with his feet and legs wrapped in a sheepskin bag, a means of heating as economical as it was necessary, for the attic had neither stove nor fireplace. All his furniture consisted of a strap bed, half hidden by an old tapestry fixed to the roof, a straw chair, a small painted wardrobe and a few fir shelves laden with bundles of papers. The table and the armchair which served the old man for his work formed the only contrast with this poor furniture. Both were of solid ebony, preciously worked, and belonging in form to the century of Louis XIII. The back of the armchair, straight and high, ended in a figure cut out in openwork, and surmounted by a rosette, while the desk, inlaid with ivory threads often broken or interrupted, was adorned, on the front, with a small enameled escutcheon, which had resisted all the injuries of time. At the noise made by the young woman on entering, the old man turned away, and a smile lit up his austere face. “Ah! it’s my pretty housekeeper,” he said. “Perhaps I’m late,” Françoise observed, placing what she was bringing on a small pedestal table which she brought up to the desk; but, I had gone out… then I had to get dressed… M. Michel looked at her. “Well! I didn’t notice,” he said, “this is indeed an outfit that M. Charles will be pleased with. ” “He wrote to me that he was coming,” Françoise continued cheerfully, looking towards the door and listening. “Then I don’t want to keep you, dear child,” said M. Michel, turning his chair towards the small table, “you must go downstairs at once. ” “No, no,” continued the young girl, in whom kindness fought impatience, “from here I can listen if anyone knocks at my door, and, in the meantime, I will keep you company as usual… You have told me many times that you eat with a better appetite when you are not alone… ” “Good girl!” murmured M. Michel, as if speaking to himself; “ah! what a pity that she was not born a century later!” “Why is that, Monsieur Michel?” asked Françoise, smiling. “For many things, my child,” continued the old man; “before a century, great changes will have taken place in the world, if it pleases God and the good sense of men! ” “What could that do to me, poor girl?” asked the florist. “First of all, there will be no more poor girls then,” continued Monsieur Michel, “except those to whom nature has denied health, good humor, and beauty… Still, we will try to compensate them with everything that can be given; but creatures endowed like you with what makes the wealth and joy of men will be the queens of the world! ” “Ah! Great God! I would not like to be queen,” interrupted Françoise, ” there are too many sorrows and troubles… ” “The royalty of which I speak will have nothing in common with that which we know, dear child,” continued the old man; it will be a spontaneous superiority , freely recognized, and to which anyone who serves the human race will be able to claim. It resembles the royalty of the horse among domestic animals, or of the rose among flowers; far from contesting it as an oppressive privilege, it will be enjoyed as a gift granted for the benefit of all. “Good,” said Françoise, who, in this explanation, had understood only one thing, the hope in a future where everyone would be happy; “good, Monsieur Michel, but it is not for me that one should wish a less sad life; I am young, I have work, and as long as Charles loves me, I have nothing to ask; but there are others who are old, in pain, and all alone! It is towards them that the world is not just. Ah! you were talking just now about royalty; well! Yes, I would like to be queen, just for one day, to do good to honest people who suffer without deserving it.
The old man, who had begun to eat, stopped and looked at the grisette. “Is it me you’re thinking of, Françoise?” he asked gently. “Excuse me, sir,” she replied, a little confused, “I didn’t mean to offend you. ” “Offend me, poor child! Are you capable of it? Pity only hurts the proud; for others, it is the best consolation. If you wish to be queen, it would be above all, I bet, to enrich your old neighbor! ” “Well! yes,” cried the grisette, “since I can say it without angering you; yes, I would like to be able to give you everything you lack… because it breaks my heart to think that you live here… in an attic where the wind blows in from all sides… Ah! If only you had let me buy that stove that the people on the second floor were offering to exchange. –And for which you wanted to give your chest of drawers? –I don’t need it; true, my good Mr. Michel, the writing desk is enough for me… But you refused so seriously… that I didn’t dare speak to you about it again… and now the opportunity is missed! Perhaps, however, while looking… –No, Françoise, I don’t want to. I have, moreover, proven to you, my dear child, that there was no place here to put it. “That’s exactly what torments me, seeing you so badly housed,” said the grisette, looking around her. “Oh! sometimes when I work alone in the evening, I start daydreaming. I imagine I’m suddenly becoming rich, like in the stories, and then I decide, in my mind, what I’m going to do with my fortune… but I don’t know why I’m telling you these follies!…” “Continue, I beg you, continue. So you’re deciding how to use your fortune? ” “Yes, sir, I’m dividing up for each of you… ” “And I’m sure you haven’t forgotten me?” “That’s what’s deceiving you: I’m not putting anything in for you. ” “Really? ” “No, because I imagine you’re used to seeing me, and would rather not leave me. So I’m putting you in my house, in my hotel!… for I have a hotel. I’ve already chosen your apartment; a bedroom and a study, carpeted , well furnished, and at midday so that you would have the sun. There would be a servant just for you, a good carriage that would take you every day to the Tuileries Gardens; on the way back, we would dine together, you would lack nothing, for I know your tastes, and it would be me who would order the meals!… Isn’t it a beautiful dream, and how happy I would be if I had a fairy godmother!… But what is the matter with you? You are not eating any more, you seem not to listen to me any more, you are not answering… The old man had indeed stopped eating, and he remained silent, but he had listened to everything, and when he raised his face, which had been lowered until then, Françoise saw a small tear sliding down his wrinkled cheeks. “Ah! my God! have I caused you grief?” she cried. M. Michel took both her hands and clasped them in his. “I wish you were my daughter, Françoise,” he said in a deep tone. “Well! Look, I am, dear M. Michel,” replied the grisette with tender gaiety, “and then let me arrange everything here as I please… while I wait for an hotel. I am sure that if the stove…” The old man silenced him. “Enough, my child, enough,” he interrupted in a tone of gentle authority, ” daughters owe obedience to their father, and I order you to leave me, for fear that M. Charles arrives without your hearing. ” “But you are going to be alone?” He shook his head, smiling. “I am never alone, dear child; for, like you, I have my dreams to keep me company. ” “Your dreams, M. Michel? ” “Yes, I also make plans for a very abandoned and miserable old man. ” “What old man? ” “The human race, my child.” But, come now, you see I’ve finished, Françoise; take everything away and come downstairs, I beg you for my sake . The grisette didn’t need any further urging. She made sure that everything was in order in the attic, took back the cup, the silver spoon, the tray, wished her neighbor goodnight, and withdrew. It was already two years since she had become his housekeeper, out of pure kindness, and had surrounded him with all the care that an old relative or an old friend could have expected. M. Michel, however, was neither of these. There was even a sort of mystery about his past that the grisette had been unable to penetrate. Judging by certain habits and certain words that sometimes escaped her, her protégé in the attic must have known better days; But what exactly had been his former position, how had it changed, where did his affected reserve about everything that concerned him come from? No one could have guessed. Françoise had just opened the door of her lodgings and was about to enter, when she heard a voice at the bottom of the stairs, answered by that of the porter; she stopped, leaning her head over the banister; a step that she recognized was already making the steps creak, she went back in with an exclamation of joy, laid down what she was carrying, and ran back to the landing just as a little man arrived. “Charles!” she cried, rushing to meet him. “Here I am, my dear,” said the visitor, planting a resounding kiss on the cheek that the grisette offered him. “You received my letter, didn’t you? ” “Oh! yes, I was expecting you; but come in quickly; it’s windy on this staircase, and you look as if you’re suffering from the cold. ” “It’s foggy,” said the little man, following Françoise into her room; “the weather is so cold that you can’t tell a rag-picker from an omnibus. Luckily I brought my rubber overcoat and muffler… Prrr… Wait, my dear; wait while I undress.” He took off the woolen cravat that wrapped around his ears, got rid of his manteau, took off his hat, and showed Françoise the small, plump, round face of Aristide Marquier! Chapter 14. An unmarried mother. It was indeed the banker, but stripped of all the fashionable embellishments we have previously mentioned. His costume, consisting of a blue frock coat that was too short and trousers that were too long, suited his features and his figure so well that the most experienced observer could not have suspected a disguise. He was, from head to toe, everything that could personify a fourth clerk of a solicitor or the sixth clerk of a mercantile house. Thus, Marquier had introduced himself to Françoise under this last title, and the name Charles, which he had adopted, was a precaution intended to maintain his incognito more securely. Such a disguise would doubtless have failed to work with an avaricious or coquettish girl, but Françoise had seen only a similarity of situation which, from the first sight, had disposed her to trust. For the florist, a stranger to all calculation, the obscurity of the clerk was a first cause of attachment. His amorous eagerness and his solicitations finally won over the young girl. Harshly brought up by an aunt who, as her only mark of tenderness, had fed her, accustomed to incessant and solitary work, knowing of life only its painful obligations, she had been unable to conceive any of the hopes which make young girls so difficult or so ambitious in a first attachment. It had been enough to tell her that she was loved for her to feel seized with gratitude and joy. It was something so new! She had counted on it so little! She glimpsed in this exchange of affection so many charming joys! Marquier took advantage of this first opening of heart and made himself loved, so to speak, by surprise. Françoise gave herself to him because he had presented himself first, and brought, in this love, the devotion of a sensitivity which found for the first time to pour itself out. She was grateful to Marquier for all the happiness which she believed she received from him, and whose source was only in herself. The birth of a son came to strengthen this connection which had already lasted for two years. The banker continued to entertain her, partly out of habit and partly out of reason, certain as he was that he could not find elsewhere a mistress as beautiful, less demanding and above all more disinterested. After helping him to get rid of his overcoat, Françoise had hastened to bring him the only armchair she possessed and into which he let himself fall while she placed herself in front of him, kneeling on a stool. “This Rue des Morts is at the end of the world,” said Marquier, catching his breath with an effort. “Why not get on our bus?” observed Françoise, wiping his forehead with her handkerchief. “Well! I’m advised to exercise,” said the banker, shaking himself; ” and then I had the evening free and I wanted to see you. ” “It’s been so long since you came, Charles! ” “What do you expect? We’re crushed with work; you had nothing to say to me, anyway, did you?” “Nothing! You think so,” resumed the grisette, drawing her face closer, shining with joy; “well! That’s what deceives you, sir: I’ve received news from Normandy. ” “Ah!… and the little one… is well?” asked Marquier in a somewhat embarrassed tone. “Yes; but that’s not all. ” “What is it then?” “Can’t you guess? ” “No. ” “Well… he’s beginning to speak!” Seeing the flash of happiness that shone in Françoise’s eyes as she spoke these words, it was evident that she expected a cry of joyful surprise from Marquier; but he remained completely calm and contented himself with repeating: “Ah! he’s beginning to speak.” A cloud passed over the young woman’s features. “Doesn’t that make you happy, Charles?” she asked with a slight accent of reproach. “On the contrary,” resumed Marquier; but you expected it, I suppose: it was clear that this boy could not remain silent. The grisette seemed surprised and distressed. In her naive maternal delight, she could not understand that each of the child’s advances was not the occasion for a celebration in the heart of her lover. “I thought I was telling you such good news,” she said sadly. “But it is excellent, the news,” Marquier continued, playing with his hair; “only, from the way you announced it to me, I thought it was a telegraph dispatch that would bring up the funds. ” Françoise made a movement. “Come now, I’m joking, don’t be angry,” he continued, kissing her, ” but it is certain that you are mad about this child. ” “It’s your son, Charles,” she replied, leaning on Marquier’s shoulder. Ah! If you only knew, come on, all the ideas that come to me when I think of him! –Let’s see your ideas… –First of all, I don’t want Jules to earn his living by working with his hands; I want him to receive an education, to become capable of having a position, of being a gentleman at last. –Why is that? –Because he mustn’t be like me… that he mustn’t shame you… –Is that a reproach, Françoise? –No, Charles, no; I know very well that if you went out with me, if I went to your house, it could hurt you; so I’m not complaining : it’s not your fault; but I would like to spare him this grief. –And how will you do it, poor girl? A boy’s education is expensive. –Oh! I know that, said the grisette in a capable tone; I’ve made inquiries; but first, our old neighbor has offered to give the child his first lessons. –And later? “Later, I’ll pay some masters. ” “But where will you find the money? ” “It’s been found,” cried Françoise triumphantly. Marquier looked at her. “Yes, found,” she repeated; “ah! you didn’t suspect that! You thought I was only busy making my roses and camellias; but that’s what’s deceiving you, sir! I, too, study business, and I’ve prepared an operation… Is that what you call it, I think? ” “Pardieu! I’d be curious to know about this operation,” said the banker, laughing. “Well!” said Françoise, “perhaps you’ve heard of the family tontine? ” “Is it a provident bank? ” “Where the children who survive inherit from those who have died. ” “That’s it.” –By depositing a hundred francs there on January 1st, for ten years, I can ensure Jules’s education costs. –Perhaps; but you have to have those hundred francs… –I have them, said Françoise, running to her chest of drawers, from which she took out a purse; look, sir, five brand new gold pieces. –Five gold pieces! That’s true, by Jove. –That will be the first year’s payment. –But how did you manage to get them?… –That’s my secret, I’ve found a way! But I didn’t want to tell you anything until I had the whole sum, and it took eleven months of saving. “And what on earth did you manage to save five louis? ” “Ah! That surprises you, because you men can only calculate for large sums; only women know how to save a little. So, for a long time I’ve been thinking about putting my affairs in a little more order, about cutting out the superfluous. ” “The superfluous!” repeated Marquier, involuntarily glancing at the grisette’s modest lodgings. “Certainly,” continued Françoise, “I told myself that there were working women who earned a third less than me and who nevertheless managed to live: it was therefore quite clear that I could save a third on my expenses. ” “But how? ” “By many means. First of all, I used to always have coffee at breakfast, which is very unhealthy, they say; I’ve stopped it. Then I found that it was enough to dress warmly to do without a fire almost all winter; finally I calculated that if I got up earlier each morning, I would have time to soap and iron what I used to give to the laundress. All this seems like little, doesn’t it? Well! Do you know what I have saved by this means, sir? At least six sous a day! Yes, six sous, which makes me more than a hundred francs a year and allows me to pay the income to the family tontine. “Kiss me, Françoise,” cried Marquier, evidently more amazed at the grisette’s skill in creating resources than moved by her devotion; “you are a good girl… who deserves to be encouraged: so I want to help you… I will go to the family tontine myself to find out if the investment is safe. ” “Ah! thank you, Charles.” “And what’s more,” added the banker, in whom, in the absence of the voice of blood, a secret shame spoke, “what’s more, I’ll also do something for Jules… I’ll give a hundred francs like you! ” “Oh! no,” interrupted Françoise quickly, “I won’t; you’re obliged to spend. A man can’t reduce himself like a woman; he must follow custom, do what his friends do; you can’t economize, Charles. ” “What do you know? ” “You’ve often told me yourself that you had trouble supporting yourself!… and then, my friend,” she added with an expression of naive tenderness, “that would take away my joy! True! I need to think that it’s me who’s raising Jules without him having to ask anything of you… that loving him… is perhaps pride; but you must forgive me, for that pride gives courage and makes one happy.” Let me raise the child, and when he is grown up, when he can do you honor, then you will take him in to help him… don’t refuse me that, Charles! “Can I refuse you anything?” said the banker, drawing him onto his knees. “You know very well that I will do anything you wish.” Françoise put an arm around his neck and thanked him with a kiss. At that moment, three sharp knocks at unequal intervals were struck at the bedroom door. Marquier started and Françoise stood up; she had recognized the manner of knocking. “It is Monsieur Marc who has come to light his candlestick,” she said. The banker suddenly remembered the encounter at the Forge-des-Buttes. He had, then, clearly believed he recognized, in the peasant saved by his two companions, the office boy who lodged on the same landing as Françoise, and from that had come his persistence in hiding his features from her; Convinced that he had succeeded, he wanted to verify his suspicions and told Françoise to show him in. Marc was wearing the cornflower blue trousers and coat, exclusively reserved, by custom, for the functions he fulfilled. At the sight of Marquier, his face brightened. He had long possessed the secret of the banker’s disguise, and had perfectly recognized him at the Forge-des-Buttes: it was precisely him he was looking for. So he greeted them with the most amiable smile and apologized for his indiscretion. –Pardieu! It’s been a long time, neighbor, since I had the pleasure of to see you, observed Marquier, who wished to strike up a conversation. “A long time indeed,” replied Marc, bowing; “it seems to me that I have not had the honor of greeting Monsieur since last month. Monsieur has not been indisposed? ” “No,” said the banker with an air of negligence, observing the office boy out of the corner of his eye; “but I have been absent from Paris for a few days. ” “Ah! Monsieur has been traveling? ” “Only in the suburbs, near Maillecourt… You must know that area?” “Excuse me, Monsieur: I have never been further than Chantenay to see my family. ” “Do you have any relatives in that part?” “A cousin, or rather another myself, for we have always been taken for twins, and if it were not for the dress, everyone would mistake us. ” Marquier looked at him. Marc’s tone was so natural that he wondered if he had not really been deceived by the resemblance. “And have you seen your cousin recently?” he asked. “It’s been a while,” replied Marc, “but I met his wife the other day, who told me that he had almost been burned by some scoundrels. ” “At the Forge-des-Buttes.” “Exactly. How does Monsieur know?” “Good God!” said Marquier, embarrassed. “The affair has been reported in all the newspapers. Hadn’t he been locked in the forge? ” “Yes; and he was freed by some travelers who were passing by… sons of families, it seems! Only, my cousin’s wife couldn’t tell me the names. ” “They were given in the newspaper,” observed the banker. “It seems to me… as far as I can remember… that they mentioned a Monsieur de Gausson and a Monsieur… Marquier…” He had mentioned this name, watching with his eye the effect it would produce on the office boy; but the latter simply repeated it. “Marquier?” he said; “could he be a relative of the banker? ” “It’s the banker himself. ” “Ah! Good! Good! ” “You know him, no doubt?” “Not him, but his cashier, Jérôme… a tall, thin man, who always takes tobacco from other people’s snuff boxes. Ah! Mr. Marquier was one of those who saved the cousin? Well! that’s a reason for me to be interested in his position… ” “What position?” asked the surprised banker. “Good God! Perhaps that’s not true,” the office boy continued good-naturedly, “for you know how in business people speak ill of one another. It often takes only one word for a house to lose its credit. ” “Have you heard anything that could harm that of the Marquier house?” cried the banker, whose financial reputation made him forget everything else; I want to know, Monsieur Marc; it is of the greatest importance to me… –The house where you work has funds with Monsieur Marquier, then? –Precisely; don’t hide anything from me, I beg you. You have heard, then, that he is in trouble? –Not precisely, replied Marc; but they fear that he will compromise himself. They say that he has begun to associate with fashionable young men ; that he lends to them without guarantee. They even mention the son of a countess. I don’t quite remember the name… –De Luxeuil, perhaps? –Yes, I think so… de Luxeuil… that’s it!… Well! they say that Monsieur Marquier lent him more than a hundred thousand francs, which the countess’s son will never be able to repay, because his mother is ruined. “And perhaps they imagine that we don’t know it!” cried the banker, rising with enthusiasm. ” I bet it was that rascal Lannaut who spread such rumors. But he’d better watch out! And, as for those who repeat them, Monsieur Marc, you can tell them one thing from me, that the Marquier house has enough in its portfolio to meet all its commitments three times over. ” “The devil!” observed the office boy, “there are very few people who could say as much. ” “And I allow you to add, for the edification of these Gentlemen, that if Arthur de Luxeuil is insolvent, his cousin is not . –So his cousin is an old woman whom he is to inherit? –No, neighbor; but she is a young woman… whom he is to marry! Marc recoiled. –Are you sure? he cried. –As sure as I am of speaking to you, Monsieur Marc, resumed the banker; everything is agreed upon, and the marriage will take place in three months. That is what Lannaut and his associates should have guessed, and what I urge you to tell them to reassure them about the Marquier house. Pronouncing these words in a tone of mocking importance and yet still angry, the banker sat down majestically; Françoise, who during the whole conversation had finished tidying the room, came closer. As for the office boy, stunned for a moment, he recovered immediately, quickly seized the cellar rat he had placed on the table, took leave of Marquier and Françoise, and left. Chapter 15. Mademoiselle Clotilde’s Household. The next day, around dusk, Marc was walking alone and slowly along the part of Rue Vivienne between the Place de la Bourse and the boulevards. His eye often fell on an elegant carriage stopped in front of one of the houses. Finally, the door opened, a tall woman wrapped in a satin burnous sprang onto the running board of the carriage, and it quickly left. Marc remained in the same place for a few minutes longer; then, skirting the houses, he knocked at the door as it had just closed, went up to the first floor, and rang. A woman in a silk dress came to open it. “Madame Beauclerc?” asked Marc. The maid looked at him and answered curtly: “At the end of the corridor.” And she left. Marc, who knew the lodgings, went without hesitation to the indicated place. Passing in front of the first room, he saw the preparations for a supper, quickened his pace and arrived at Madame Beauclerc’s room , the door of which was open. The appearance of this room had something characteristic about it. It was hung with woolen damask and furnished luxuriously, in the most modern taste; but the habits of the tenant had singularly harmed this elegance. Bottles, glasses, combs, candlesticks were scattered over all the furniture, and one could see the remains of a ham, wrapped in its greasy paper, lying on the velvet that lined the fireplace. In every corner were lying old shoes or brown earthenware coffee pots. The rosewood dressing table had been transformed into a kitchen table, and a saucepan was pushed into the opening intended for the basin; Finally, a large black dog had taken possession, with all her litter, of the eiderdown placed on the foot of the bed. But the most curious thing about this interior was Madame Beauclerc herself. Madame Beauclerc, who, according to her, had once had the lightness of a doe, had developed so much with time that she could now only be compared to the mammoth reconstructed by the science of our naturalists. When she walked around her room, panting, everything around her moved; her entire person presented only a mass broken by a kind of cascades of trembling flesh under which one would have searched in vain for a form. She was dressed in a black merino dress torn at the elbows, a faded scarf which served as a shawl, a nightcap covered with a cotton handkerchief, and large shoes from which she had cut the quarters to make slippers. When Marc appeared at the door, she was sitting at a small table on which were placed two glasses, a bottle and a pack of cards. She turned away when she heard the sound of his footsteps, and recognized him:
“Well, it’s you, Monsieur Marc,” she said, with a gesture of welcome, ” come in, my dear, come in. ” “I’m not disturbing you, Mother Beauclerc?” he asked. “On the contrary, my darling, I was bored being alone; Clotilde has just to leave for the theater and she has taken the coachman who was playing my game; you will replace him. “Pardon, Mother Beauclerc, it’s just that I hardly know how to hold cards. ” “Well! Well! You only have to want to; you know brisque or piquet well. ” “I can play piquet a little. ” “Well! Sit down there, my son, there’s the coachman’s glass right there, you can drink after him, he’s a very healthy man; he’s even been vaccinated. ” Marc took his seat and the fat woman began to shuffle the cards. “Do you know it’s been a long time since you came?” she said, making him cut. “I’ve had to work,” Marc observed. “And are you doing a bit? ” “Very gently. ” “It seems to me, however, that there’s no shortage of game? ” “Perhaps, but you have to take it. ” “That’s true, not everyone has the knack, as they say; You have to have the genius for it. And leaning over the table, lowering his voice: “You haven’t found someone to replace me yet, I bet. ” “That’s true, Mother Beauclerc,” replied Marc, arranging his hand. The fat woman puffed herself up. “No, no,” she continued with a capable air, “you can say that it was a loss for you, little one, when I left the game… Mother Beauclerc had the knack, you see, and it’s something that doesn’t give itself away. Also, there are times when I regret having nothing more to do. ” “You’re better off here than in your lodge in the Marais,” objected Marc. “I’m not saying, my son, I’m not saying,” continued Mother Beauclerc, filling the two glasses; “but there’s no such thing as a little home. Over there, I was queen and mistress of my cordon, while here I’m with my daughter.” “It seems to me that you lack nothing. ” “For that, I have no reproaches to make to her,” said the fat woman, who was emptying her glass in small sips. “Clotilde leaves everything to me, even the cellar; but, the better girl she is, the more I must worry about her future. ” “What do you fear for her, Mother Beauclerc? ” “I fear her good heart, my darling; in her position, you see, one must be reasonable; it is a misfortune that she knows this M. de Luxeuil. ” “Why is that? I thought he was generous. ” “Yes, yes, but it alienates others; a woman of the theater must have principles: she must not become attached to anyone. ” “Then,” said Marc, looking at her, “according to your opinion, it would be better for Mademoiselle Clotilde to get rid of M. de Luxeuil? ” “All the better since he is said to be ruined,” replied Mother Beauclerc; Besides , I warned Clotilde. Be careful, my child, I told her; when a house threatens to fall, the rats leave; one must not show less wit than animals when one has been properly educated. –And what did she answer you? –Ah! well! all sorts of bad reasons: that M. de Luxeuil was a good child, and that she would not find better… do I know, me. –But she loves him then! –That would be the last straw! No, no, thank God, she has too much common sense to become attached. But it is that little pest Clara who is the cause of everything… You know, Clara de l’Ambigu? Well! She bet that my daughter would not know how to keep a lover; so Clotilde puts her self-esteem into it. These youths, they are so glorious! –And she is determined to keep M. de Luxeuil. “At all costs! Now you understand why I’m worried? I know my daughter, you see, nothing will make her give up her idea, and whatever it costs her, she will want to give the lie to her friend. ” Marc reflected for a moment: his first thought on learning of Arthur’s marriage plan had been to put an end to it through Clotilde: the fat woman’s hostility to this liaison had frightened him at first; but these last confidences reassured him. “Devil! It’s unfortunate that your daughter is so attached to her Monsieur, ” he said after a pause… “all the more unfortunate that she’s wasting her time.” and his troubles. “Who told you that!” cried Madame Beauclerc. Marc blinked. “You know very well that you don’t ask, Mama,” he observed in a low voice; “all I can tell you is that Monsieur de Luxeuil is playing like a bachelor. ” “What! He’s getting married? ” “With his cousin… for whom he’s crazy!” Madame Beauclerc dropped her cards. “Is it really possible!” she cried; “he’s getting married!… and Clotilde doesn’t know anything! ” “Do you expect him to warn her, by any chance? It will be soon enough when the time comes to break it off. ” “That is to say, he’ll leave my daughter there!” interrupted the fat woman brightly. “Ah! the beggar! He’ll get through my hands first.” Marc looked at her in surprise. “But what were you saying just now, Mother Beauclerc?” he asked. “Just now I was saying that Clotilde would have done well to leave him,” cried the former porteress, to the news that it was he who was now leaving her. “Well? ” “Well! It’s a disgrace for us! He’ll seem to have grown disgusted with my daughter; it’s enough to ruin her reputation. ” “Then I see only one way,” Marc continued; “by warning Mademoiselle Clotilde, she might succeed in preventing this marriage… ” “Yes,” said Madame Beauclerc, who leaned with both hands on the table to get up; “she must break everything up, and when everything is broken, she’ll chase Luxeuil away. That way, everything will be profitable. Ah! He’s marrying cousins without warning! Well! We’ll show him what we can do. Just then… he’s having supper here with friends.” “It seems to me they’ve already arrived,” observed Marc, who had been listening for a moment. Madame Beauclerc approached the door. “I hear voices in the drawing-room,” she said. “It remains to be seen whether Clotilde has returned.” She was about to cross the corridor to inquire when the doorbell rang. A servant opened it, and the young actress appeared with Arthur, who had one arm around her waist. She had kept on the costume she had just performed in, and her white satin burnous, half unfastened, revealed her beautiful bare shoulders. As they entered, de Luxeuil leaned forward to kiss them. “Finish it, you rascal!” said Clotilde without disturbing herself, and in that drawling accent adopted in Paris by women of a certain class. De Luxeuil redoubled his voice. “Well! He’s biting me now!” cried the actress, with a movement that caused almost her entire shoulder to emerge from her velvet gown and suddenly betray the beauty of her form; enough of this nonsense, come on. “I’ve never seen you so pretty!” said Arthur, who continued to hold her waist. “Leave me,” interrupted Clotilde, “there are already people in the drawing-room, you must come in. ” “And you! ” “In a moment.” De Luxeuil gave her another kiss and joined the other guests. As for Clotilde, she found Mother Beauclerc waiting for her at the end of the corridor and, without giving her time to ask any questions, led her into her room, the door of which she closed from the inside. ” We leave her there, busy receiving her mother’s confidence, to follow Arthur into the room he had just entered. ” The guests, eight to ten in number, were the epitome of the Café de Paris. Each of them had his own kind of glory. First, we saw the Duke of Alpoda, the last offspring of one of the most famous generals of the Empire, who excelled in stick fencing and in the more vulgar exercise known as savate; the Marquis of Rovoy, renowned for his talent in training a horse and making his jockeys lose weight; the Viscount of Rossac, who had not yet taken possession of his seat in the Chamber of Peers, and who was preparing himself for legislative functions by tricks of sleight of hand that would have driven the Counts and the Philippes to despair ; the Prince of Kishoff, a Frenchified Russian, whose collection of pipes was cited ; finally, several others less illustrious, but devoted to some equally respectable specialties. Marquier was the only one who was not recommended by any particular merit. De Luxeuil found this elite of French youth busy discussing whether or not the latest debutante at the Opera had a well-placed ankle. Each invoked, in support of his opinion, that of some celebrity of fashion, and these were only princely and historical names. Arthur’s entrance cut short the debate. He had attended Lord Durford’s race , and he was surrounded to learn the result; but the disagreements raised about the dancer were soon renewed on the subject of the horses called to compete. The Marquis de Rovoy , who had recently lost a bet against Lord Durford, claimed that he owed his success only to the jockeys of his opponents, an accusation which was vigorously rejected by the Prince de Kishoff and supported by some others. The discussion was even beginning to become heated and degenerate into a quarrel, when Marquier interrupted it with a cry of admiration; he had just stopped in front of a porcelain tray, supported by a small lemon-tree table placed in front of a window. “Look, look, gentlemen,” he cried, “a new acquisition of Clotilde’s! Old Saxony, and all the finest. It’s a tray worth a thousand francs. ” “It cost me three thousand, my good man,” de Luxeuil observed carelessly . “Ah! So it’s one of your presents, Arthur? ” “Yes, as we were dining together today, I wanted to surprise our hostess. ” “It’s magnificent,” continued Marquier, whose admiration had redoubled since he learned the price of the tray; “a thousand crowns! A hundred and fifty francs a year. Do you know, my dear fellow, that you have royal manners .”
“You will also see a surtout in old goldsmith’s work which is being tried out this evening,” continued de Luxeuil, who had, above all, the vanity to appear generous; “but I do not understand what can prevent us from having supper. Clotilde was only supposed to be here for a moment… I must go and find out. ” “It is useless,” interrupted M. de Rovoy, “here she is.” The young actress’s brilliant voice could be heard, mingling with her mother’s more muted voice; both were drawing nearer and seemed animated by anger. Suddenly the door of the drawing-room was violently pushed open, and Clotilde appeared there , her hair unfurled, her bodice half undone, pale, and her eyes sparkling. At the sight of her, the young people had all turned around, but she did not seem to notice their presence and looked around for Arthur. “Ah!” There he is, she cried, pointing at him, he’ll have to answer! And rushing towards de Luxeuil, seizing him by both arms, she asked, looking into his eyes. Arthur, taken unawares, moved back. What question are you asking me? he stammered, and for what purpose… Is it true? Is it true? cried Clotilde, shaking the hands she was holding. Come now, answer, if you have a bit of courage! But what does it mean? Who could have told you? Someone who knows a lot! Mother Beauclerc interrupted from afar, who had not been able to get through the drawing-room door, only one leaf of which was open. Oh! they want to show us colors; but don’t think they’ll mechanize my daughter like the first person who comes along… Make him answer you, Lolo. “And what can I say?” said Arthur quickly, ashamed of the ridiculous situation in which he found himself, and of which the sneers of his friends warned him; “you are mad, Clotilde. ” “Mad?” repeated the actress, letting go of the young man’s hand; ” that is to say, then, that it is not? ” Arthur made an equivocal gesture. “He denies it,” she continued, turning away towards the guests, “you saw him, didn’t you? Well! he lied. ” De Luxeuil wanted to interrupt her. “He lied, he lied,” she repeated with heated insistence, and the proof is that I know the whole story. He’s marrying his cousin; he told that fat little fellow who’s over there and who lent him money!… Let him speak instead: isn’t that the truth? This last question was addressed to Marquier, who looked at de Luxeuil, stammering out an evasive answer; but the latter had made up his mind. “Well? When will that be?” he said haughtily. “So you confess!” interrupted Clotilde; “do you hear? Now he confesses. He’s getting married!… and I didn’t know anything about it! He hadn’t warned me of anything! He was acting sly and hypocritical. ” “Clotilde!” “Yes, the hypocrite!” repeated the actress, exasperated; “if you had been frank with me, you would have said: – There! I must make an end of it, let’s separate.” We would have parted as good friends: but no, you hid everything from me, as one would do from a legitimate wife! You wanted to keep me until the wedding day to make it a point to sacrifice myself! It was advantageous… and convenient! We kept the mistress while waiting for the wife; there was only me who could lose by it. “I don’t see what you’ve lost by it, my dear,” said de Luxeuil, glancing at the last gifts he had offered to Clotilde. She doubtless understood his look, for, leaping towards one of the shelves he had indicated, she seized the precious objects displayed there and smashed them on the ground. The guests gave an exclamation of surprise. “What are you doing?” cried Marquier, who wanted to stop him. “I’m giving him back what he gave me,” she said, rolling a cut-crystal dressing-case to Arthur’s feet… Ah! I haven’t lost anything!… wait, wait!… that’s not all! There are still those vases from the console… paff… and those statuettes… paff! paff! and that cabaret! Ah! a new cabaret!… “Stop!” cried Marquier, both arms outstretched, “it cost three thousand francs…” “Paff! paff! paff!” interrupted Clotilde, throwing the coffeepot, then the sugar bowl, then the cream jug, then the tray with all the cups. De Luxeuil, who had at first tried to oppose this excess of passion, finally lost patience. “She’s a fury,” he said, looking for his hat to leave. At that moment the cries uttered by Mother Beauclerc became more piercing. Still standing at the door, which she tried in vain to get through, she held out her arms to the young men, repeating: “Hold her back, she’ll break everything. Lord God! There’s enough here to ruin us….. Lolo….. Lolo….. But you want to put us to begging, poor thing! She must be crazy about that scoundrel!…” These last words struck Arthur as he was about to open the second door; he stopped involuntarily and turned his head towards the actress. She, finding nothing more to break, had just stopped, but the violent movements to which she had abandoned herself had caused her half-unlaced dress to slide down. Standing in the darkest corner of the room, her shoulders flooded with her long brown hair, her head held high, one foot forward, her bare and panting chest, she was of such original and sovereign beauty that de Luxeuil was dazzled. He took a step toward her, looked at the debris strewn across the floor, in which a note from Mother Beauclerc had just shown him tokens of love, looked back at the young woman whose bold form stood out against the red draperies of the window, and, fascinated, so to speak, by this contemplation, he threw his hat back on an armchair. “After all, I am as unreasonable as she is to get carried away,” he murmured, “when with a word I can explain everything.” And turning to the guests: “Pardon, gentlemen, for this indoor scene,” he continued with forced gaiety, “it is a splendid and unplanned entertainment, but the continuation of which could become ruinous. Please go into the small drawing-room, and we will have the pleasure of joining you presently.” The young people withdrew. De Luxeuil then approached Clotilde, whose initial anger had subsided and who had just thrown herself onto a sofa. “You’re very lucky to be so pretty,” he said, brushing a kiss against her bare neck. The actress withdrew to one side and ordered him to leave her, but in a softer tone. The spontaneity of Arthur’s exclamation had evidently flattered her; unfortunately, Mother Beauclerc, who had just managed to enter by opening both doors, wanted to interfere. “Yes, how pretty she is,” she continued sourly, “prettier than your future wife and any other ! One has only to round up all the beautiful women in Paris and bring them in to see; Lolo doesn’t fear them. ” “It seems that Monsieur doesn’t think so,” Clotilde observed without looking at de Luxeuil. “Forgive me, my dear,” he continued, trying to put one of his arms around her. “And that’s why he wants to leave me,” the young woman continued ironically, freeing herself. “What’s all this talk about leaving you?” Arthur continued calmly. “Talker! To guess that, one doesn’t need to have invented steam ,” cried Mother Beauclerc, “since Monsieur is getting married. ” “And if I were getting married precisely in his interest?” said de Luxeuil. The actress, who had until then turned her head away, looked at him. “In my interest,” she continued. “Ah! for example! He’s a bit strong in coffee, that one; to get married in the interest of his mistress! Monsieur must think me more stupid than a dancer! ” “I only think you don’t know anything about my affairs,” Arthur continued. You love luxury, don’t you? You care about your equipment, your furniture… when you don’t break them? “That nonsense!” said Clotilde, shrugging her shoulders, “I certainly care about it. ” “Well! my dear, I, for my part, care that you have everything you could wish for. Up to now, I have succeeded; but today my resources are exhausted. ” “Is that true!” said the actress quickly, looking at him. “When I told you!” cried the mother; “I was sure of it. I was warned that he was going to fall into poverty. ” “Well! they were mistaken, my dear Madame Beauclerc,” Arthur continued in an ironically haughty tone; “only people of a certain class fall into poverty, according to your elegant expression. We others always have some way of putting our affairs back on track. ” “And the marriage in question is one of those ways!” asked Clotilde, who was beginning to listen with interest. “Exactly, my dear: heaven has given me a cousin who has been beautified with about fifty thousand pounds a year. ” “Fifty thousand pounds!” interrupted Madame Beauclerc, amazed… “With a fortune at least equal in prospect. You understand that it would have been necessary to be more clumsy than a constitutional minister to allow another to profit from the opportunity. So I have made a date, and, in a short time, I hope, we shall come into possession of our modest million. ” “Good heavens! It was necessary to speak,” said the mother enthusiastically. “If that is how it is, I have nothing to say, and I declare, young man, that I return my esteem to you. ” “Very good!” replied Arthur, bowing; “but if I remained silent, it is because it was only a question of a negotiation about money, and I am not in the habit of boring Clotilde with my affairs.” Now I hope she understands my position and is no longer angry with me. “No,” replied the fat woman, “she can’t be angry with you since she has to profit from the dowry. Do you understand, Lolo? In the end, he was right when he said he was marrying for your benefit. ” “Then I’ll be out for my china,” said the actress, who had only had time to go from anger to gaiety in the time it took to answer this explanation. “What a mess! Oh! Look, Mama, there’s enough to fill a rag-picker’s basket.” Madame Beauclerc looked at Arthur. “A real sheep of God,” she said, pointing to her daughter. the eye; it has no more gall than a chicken. She would set fire to Paris for a yes or a no, and as soon as she saw it blaze , she would bring water to put it out. I flatter myself that you have fallen well, my son-in-law, and that you owe a famous candle to your patron. “So, it is finished!” said de Luxeuil, who had wrapped Clotilde in his arms and was covering her with kisses. “Well! yes,” she continued, responding rather weakly to his caresses; “but leave me, I must get dressed. ” “You are so beautiful like this. ” “And the others who are waiting over there! They must be dying of hunger. ” “It is true, we must join them and have them served. ” “In a moment I will be ready.” With these words she leaned over, pressed a kiss to Arthur’s lips, then escaped, followed by her mother. She found Marc at her house, to whom she told in detail everything that had happened and who withdrew in despair. What he had just learned confirmed all his prejudices against Arthur de Luxeuil, but took away his only chance of preventing his marriage with Honorine. He was also unaware of the young girl’s feelings towards her cousin, and the means employed by the latter to secure approval for his search. After thinking for a long time about what he should do, he decided to write two letters which he took care to send immediately. Chapter 16. A Family Plot. When Honorine went downstairs the next day at visiting time, she found the Marquise de Biezi, Madame des Brotteaux, Arthur, Marquier and the doctor in the drawing-room. The conversation, without any follow-up as usual, turned from politics to the gossip of the town. There was talk of great weddings, the debut of the Opera and the new preacher; but, at the latter’s name, Mr. Darcy, who was talking with the Marquise, turned around. “Ah! So you have also heard of that man?” he asked. “They tell marvelous stories about him,” observed Madame des Brotteaux. “He is, they say, the type of Bossuet,” added Madame de Luxeuil. “The Gazette de France compares him to Monsieur de Frayssinous,” finished Marquier. “Well! they are all lies!” resumed the doctor. “Your preacher is only a bad trial lawyer pleading for the Trinity. ” “So you have heard him? ” “I have.” Everyone gave an “ah!” of surprise. “Is it possible!” said Madame de Biezi, laughing; “you went to the sermon, doctor! ” “Thanks to that wretched Durosoir,” resumed Mr. Darcy with amusing indignation. “You know Durosoir well?” “The naturalist?” “Yes, the best atheist in Paris, after me; well! it was he who led me into this mess. ” “To see if the preacher could convert you? ” “On the contrary, in the hope that we would see him share our incredulity! ” “How so? ” “Durosoir claimed he had decided to abjure Catholicism. You understand that it would have been a curious thing to see a priest leaving his holy water shop and notifying the Pope of his end. So I let myself be drawn in. ” “And the preacher abjured? ” “He preached for three hours on the necessity of faith.” There was a general burst of laughter. “That seems amusing to you,” Mr. Darcy continued with a bad humor that redoubled the gaiety of his audience; “but I was there, necessarily listening to this spinner of holy phrases who promised me paradise if I could have faith only the size of a mustard seed.” “And you refused him for so little!” said the Marquise, laughing. “By Jove! That’s intolerance, doctor,” added Arthur; “between people who live off our weaknesses, we should get along better. The preacher passes you the rhubarb, pass him the mustard. ” “No,” resumed Madame de Biezi with incisive boldness, “the doctor’s hatred is less blind than you think, it’s an instinct of rivalry; doctors would like to kill the soul, because they are the masters of the body. By abolishing the Church, we would give the world to the Faculty. “And I dare say that the world would have only to gain by it,” resumed Mr. Darcy with a vivacity that made Honorine herself smile. ” Yes, to gain by it, ” he repeated more energetically, “for we would be a natural necessity, instead of the priest who is an arbitrary convention. By giving men infirmities, nature has founded the legitimacy of physicians. ” “That’s it!” interrupted Arthur, “they want to be kings by the grace of God… ” “In which they don’t believe,” added Madame de Biezi. “But, do you know that you are a monster of impiety, doctor?” said Madame de Luxeuil, half-angry. “In ’93, he would have sent us all to the Conciergerie,” added the Marquise. “Is that true?” cried Madame des Brotteaux, almost frightened. “That’s certain, my dear; don’t you see that the doctor is a bastard of Robespierre?” M. Darcy’s smile suddenly faded at the name. “Ah! Don’t talk to me about that wretch, Madame la Marquise,” he cried. “He is the only man in the Convention whom I abandon to his enemies. He may be justified in voting for the death of the king, permitting the massacre in the prisons, and slitting the throats of the Girondins; but there will always remain one accusation from which nothing can absolve him: It was he who restored the Supreme Being to us! ” The conclusion was so unexpected that it did not even arouse laughter; all the audience looked at one another. “Is he speaking seriously?” asked Madame de Biezi, who fixed her eyes on the doctor with curiosity. “Very seriously, Madame,” replied Darcy, assuming a grave attitude. “Then he’s mad,” cried Madame des Brotteaux, drawing back instinctively. “That is to say, you won’t see him again!” added the scandalized Countess. “And I,” continued the Marquise, laughing, “who invited him to come tomorrow to dine with the internuncio. ” “What! That Italian I met yesterday at your house?” said the doctor. “He’s nothing less than a cardinal.” Darcy struck the arm of the sofa on which he was sitting. “Well! Never mind!” he continued resolutely. “I accepted and I will go. ” “You? ” “Yes. I am very pleased to be able to express, once in my life, my way of thinking before one of His Holiness’s intimates… even if he were to have me burned later. ” “Bragger!” interrupted the Countess, “you know very well that the Church burns no one.” “That’s true,” Darcy observed, “she is content to corrupt, by distributing recommendations, positions, money! When one has been unable to become an engineer, a lawyer, or a mounted clerk in the united rights, one becomes a Catholic, and the priests take it upon themselves to get you a dowry. ” “Well! What do you find reprehensible?” “Me, nothing, Madame la Marquise; formerly, to convert unbelievers they were burned; today, they are married! It is evidently a softening. ” “As for marriage, the doctor is right,” said Madame des Brotteaux; “the curé of Saint-Sulpice, whom I know, always has at his disposal a dozen heiresses. ” “Ah! you remind me that he came to see me yesterday,” resumed the Marquise; “do you know whom he proposed I marry? ” “Who?” “Monsieur de Luxeuil. ” “Me!” cried Arthur. “You yourself! It was about a young and wealthy provincial woman who lives in the Vendée, where she resigns herself to being a saint while waiting for something better. You were to go and make her acquaintance, with a recommendation from the archbishopric. ” “And what did you answer?” asked Madame de Luxeuil. “Good God!” said the Marquise, letting her gaze slide over Honorine, who was standing a few steps away busy with some tapestry, “I replied that Monsieur Arthur did not like traveling, and that, according to all appearances, he would wait for happiness at home.” The allusion was so clear that there was a stir among the audience. Marquier laughed approvingly, the Countess seemed worried, and the The doctor turned his eyes towards Honorine. She did not understand at first, but the kind of curious attention she was receiving finally enlightened her; she blushed, then turned pale. The Marquise, who took pleasure in her confusion, leaned towards her. “Well! What are you doing, my little one,” she said intentionally, ” you’re getting tangled up in your wool. ” Honorine wanted to reply; the words stopped on her lips. “Come now, be calm, I will not betray your secret,” Madame de Biezi continued in a lower voice. “I have no secret,” the young girl continued. “Then why blush and tremble?” “Madame…, I swear to you… ” “Well, well, we saw nothing, we know nothing! But don’t defend yourselves, or we would be obliged to guess. As for Monsieur Arthur, I hope he will forgive me… And you, gentlemen, I recommend silence.” You’re not angry with me, at least, Countess? I should be sorry to have committed an impropriety. While talking and laughing, she rose to take her leave; the doctor asked permission to escort her to her carriage, while Marquier offered his arm to Madame des Brotteaux; so that Honorine soon found herself alone with her aunt and cousin. The two latter at first exchanged glances that seemed to question and answer each other; there was a moment of deliberation, then they seemed to make up their minds. Arthur, who was near the door, closed it without affectation, while Madame de Luxeuil went to sit on the sofa opposite Honorine. “I always foresaw what has just happened,” she said in a sorrowful tone, “and I could have sworn that the first indiscretion would come from the Marquise.” “I am truly sorry that these allusions should have embarrassed my cousin to this extent,” added Arthur with constraint. “It proves that uncertain positions are always false,” the countess continued firmly. “After what has just happened, it is clear that your care for your cousin has been noticed by everyone , and that you cannot continue it any longer without justifying it. ” “You know that this is my dearest desire,” said Arthur, approaching Honorine. “If I have remained silent until this moment, it is because I wanted to be known by my cousin and deserve her; but in the absence of words, my actions have sufficiently made known to her what I feel. I am sure that she has understood my love; it only remains for me to know if she has accepted it!” As he spoke these last words, Arthur approached the young girl, and, placing one knee on the stool placed before her, he wanted to take one of her hands. Honorine drew back with an involuntary movement. “Come now, speak without fear, dear child,” resumed Madame de Luxeuil, who had leaned towards her. “Don’t despair of this poor boy who loves you and whom you love. ” “Me!” stammered Honorine, astonished. “You, my dear. Haven’t you had him for six months as your servant ? You are made for each other, dear little one; everyone has noticed it: remember the looks and smiles that turned towards you when Madame de Biezi disconcerted us with her allusion. Come now, if it costs you too much to answer, at least give him your hand. ” Speaking thus in an insinuating voice, Madame de Luxeuil gently pushed the troubled young girl towards Arthur. What had just happened had been so rapid, so unexpected, that Honorine had at first found herself as if struck by lightning: the confession of her cousin brought about, and, so to speak, justified by the suppositions of Madame de Biezi, the assurance of her aunt who seemed unable to suspect a hesitation, the lack of presence of mind which is the consequence of a first shock, all reduced her to silence; she had heard the declarations of Arthur and Madame de Luxeuil succeed one another, without finding a way to reply, and each delay made it more difficult for her to speak. However, having arrived at this supreme moment where the insistence of the Countess was about to wrest from her a sort of tacit consent, she made a desperate effort, dropped the tapestry she was holding in her hand, and stood up in confusion. “Well! what is the matter with you, child?” said Madame de Luxeuil, trying to hold her back. “Pardon,” stammered Honorine with shame and entreaty, “I did not know… I did not want… to make you believe… oh! forgive me, Madame… but you were mistaken! ” The Countess made a movement, and Arthur straightened up. “My cousin refuses!” he cried with irritated surprise. “It is impossible!” interrupted Madame de Luxeuil sharply: her very reputation no longer allows her to hesitate. Do you think, my dear, that one can accept with impunity, for nearly a year, the attentions of a young man, live with him in familiar intimacy, and finally give everyone the persuasion you have just heard expressed by the Marquise? Your conduct was a commitment made before the public, and, unless my son has deserved to fall in your esteem… “Oh! I do not say that,” interrupted the young girl, who felt her embarrassment redouble; “but I had believed… that the title of relative… justified… this attention… and that it was enough to repay it with my friendship! ” “Well! Who asks anything else of you, my dear?” cried the Countess. “You see that you admit it yourself? You have a friendship for Arthur. ” “No doubt… Madame.” “What more do you want, then? A passion?” Just remember, my dear, that this isn’t a romance, it’s a marriage. “But… Madame,” Honorine tried. The Countess drew her to her side. “Listen to me, little one,” she said, resuming her laughing tone. “I have more experience than you, don’t I? I know what you need, let yourself be led… like a submissive daughter… and accept the happiness of trust. Come, it’s understood, isn’t it true, tomorrow I’ll take care of the basket with Arthur!” “Madame,” cried Honorine, who felt her confusion and pain turning to tears. “Oh! I would have liked my silence to be understood without offending anyone… please, do not press me further…, and above all, forgive me, for… I cannot… These last words had been whispered almost in the ear of the countess, on whose shoulder Honorine had just hidden her face, but Arthur’s mother straightened up abruptly. All her features had taken on an expression of disappointment. “You cannot!” she cried, “and what is the obstacle? Who is holding you back? Why this insulting change? Come now, Mademoiselle, at least give a reason. You do not answer, so you have none, and to a firm, necessary resolution, you can only oppose a whim! Do not hope to make me give in, I will not have the responsibility for your actions without having the direction, and this marriage will take place because it must… and because I want it!” Honorine raised her head quickly. Until then she had felt herself enveloped in the caresses and prayers of Madame de Luxeuil; enervated, so to speak, by her insidious tenderness, she had not found the strength to push her away and to return a blow for a caress; but the threat suddenly broke these bonds of timidity. She shuddered under the goad; her tears stopped, and she dared to meet her aunt’s gaze. “I know what respect I owe to the wishes of Madame la Comtesse,” she said firmly; “but she cannot wish me to commit myself without prudence, and my voluntary choice shields her responsibility: whatever the consequences of this choice, I will undergo them without complaint. ” “And I will not allow them,” cried Madame de Luxeuil, from whom this resistance had robbed her of all composure and presence of mind. “Ah! My indulgence has emboldened you, you hope that I will patiently suffer your revolt and your ingratitude? –Madame! –You are mistaken, Mademoiselle, I will know how to force you to obey or to confess to me the true cause of this refusal… “Don’t ask my cousin,” interrupted Arthur, who had listened until then to this debate with a mixture of impatience and spite; such a confession would undoubtedly cost her too much! “So you have understood the reason?” asked the Countess. “I understood,” continued Arthur, whose gaze remained fixed on the young girl, “that I had to combat, in my cousin’s mind, some unfavorable comparison… ” “What!” cried Madame de Luxeuil, “she would love another?” Honorine wanted to make a gesture of protest, but she did not finish it . The image of Marcel had just crossed her mind, and she suddenly felt why Madame de Luxeuil’s plan had so painfully seized her. Her cousin’s words enlightened her on what she had not yet admitted to herself. This kind of revelation troubled her. She could not meet Arthur’s gaze , blushed, and bowed her head without replying. “You see I guessed right!” he continued, with bitter anger, turning to the Countess. “If I am rejected, it is because another is better received; it is for his sake that we had to endure a refusal as unexpected as it was insulting! But let no one think that I am resigned to it. No; my hopes have been allowed to grow, they have been encouraged by everything that can give confidence, they have been made public, and now they would like to deceive them for the benefit of another! I will not accept this humiliation. If I can be driven to despair, at least I cannot be made contemptible or ridiculous; I swear on my honor that the one who is preferred to me will have to account for my destroyed projects, and that the place will remain entirely for one person. ” With these words, Arthur abruptly opened the door of the drawing-room and disappeared. Whether she wanted to appease him or confer with him, Madame de Luxeuil was about to run after him when Monsieur the Marquis de Chanteaux was announced. She first made a gesture of annoyance, then, changing her mind, she ordered him to be brought into her boudoir, and went out to join him. Chapter 17. The Revelation. At Arthur’s threat, Honorine’s thoughts had leaped to Marcel. Although nothing her cousin had said had shown that he suspected Marcel, the young girl’s fears outstripped the danger. She understood that, ultimately, the fight could only begin where there was rivalry, and that, sooner or later, de Luxeuil and de Gausson would find themselves face to face. Her mind dared not go further! The mere idea of this meeting made her dizzy. She ran to shut herself up in her room, where the solitude and silence further aroused her anxieties. She reproached herself for not having restrained Arthur, for not having done anything to dissuade him. She already pictured to herself, with the vivacity of a frightened imagination, all the consequences of the debate that was about to begin; she cursed herself for giving rise to it; she wondered, with unspeakable anguish, what she should do. Finally, as always happened to her in her extreme agitations, she ran to the portrait of the Baroness to ask her advice and protection. As we have already said, the young girl’s tenderness for her mother had expressed itself in a sort of superstitious adoration for the image that reminded her of her. She had become accustomed to addressing her confidences and prayers to her, as formerly to the image of Mary that adorned her cell as a boarder. Standing before the portrait, her heart swollen, her eyes moist, her hands clasped, she looked at those smiling features with supplicating anguish. “What can I do,” she murmured, “inspire me, my mother… help me!… How can I prevent a fight?… My God! I hope it’s not already too late… If my cousin had suspected… If he had left….. If Marcel and he… ” A pistol shot interrupted her. She turned away with a cry. At that moment Justine entered. “Mademoiselle was frightened,” she said, smiling. “What’s the matter, what’s happening?” asked Honorine, palpitating. “Nothing, Mademoiselle; it’s Monsieur de Luxeuil firing in the garden.” The young girl ran to the window and saw, indeed, a light smoke rising through the bare trees. Almost at the same moment a second shot was heard. She recoiled, shivering. “Good God! There’s no danger,” observed Justine. “Mademoiselle knows perfectly well that Monsieur Arthur has had the main path prepared for shooting and that he often practices there. ” “Is he alone?” asked Honorine. “Yes, Mademoiselle; I knew he was going to shoot because I heard him just now asking the valet for his pistols, saying he wanted to get his hand in practice. ” Honorine turned pale. “It’s a pity Mademoiselle can’t see from here,” continued Justine, who had gone over to the window. “She would enjoy admiring Monsieur’s skill. He hits the mark every time. ” “So you’ve seen him?” asked the anxious young girl. “Oh! Many times, Mademoiselle. Especially when he brought his friends, Messrs. Rovoy, d’Alpode, Marquier, de Gausson; but none of them could compete with him. Monsieur de Rovoy shot too low, Monsieur de Gausson too high, and as for Monsieur Marquier, some accident always happened to him… But the sound of those pistol shots seems to hurt Mademoiselle… ” “It’s true,” said Honorine, who shuddered at each explosion and was completely terrified by the chambermaid’s confidences. “I’ll ask Monsieur to stop,” she continued, making a move to leave. “No,” interrupted the young girl, “I’m afraid he might find it strange… ” “To do something pleasant for Mademoiselle? Ah! Monsieur Arthur will be only too happy. Mademoiselle has no idea how devoted he is to her. I’ll warn him at once… ” “It’s useless, he’s not firing any more. ” The maid leaned over the balcony. “That’s true,” she said, “here’s Pierre bringing back the weapons. I suspected, moreover, that Monsieur wouldn’t continue for long; for he had ordered the tilbury to be harnessed. ” “So he’s going out?” “Listen.” The rolling of a carriage on the pavement of the courtyard had just lightly rattled the panes. Honorine ran to the opposite window and saw the tilbury, driven by her cousin, passing through the carriage entrance and disappearing into the suburb. The idea that he was going to Gausson’s struck her like a bolt of lightning. Overexcited by the series of emotions that had just assailed her, she had reached that moment when a final shock throws the soul beyond all reserve and makes further uncertainty impossible. She turned abruptly to Justine and cried out that she wanted to speak to Madame de Luxeuil. The maid went out and returned after a few minutes, with the Countess herself. The latter signaled to Justine to withdraw and found herself alone with her niece. In asking to see Madame de Luxeuil, Honorine had obeyed an unthinking surge of grief and terror. She had wanted to ward off, at all costs, the danger that seemed to threaten Marcel; but at the sight of the Countess, she suddenly felt frozen and remained in the same place, speechless and motionless. Madame de Luxeuil observed her for a moment, then sat down. There was something solemn, hard, and resolute in her manner. She waited first for Honorine to speak, but seeing that she continued to remain silent, she finally said briefly: “When you sent for me, I was going to come, Mademoiselle, for the last words of my son, as he left you, announced a project that frightened me… ” “Ah! it is of this project that I wanted to speak to you, Madame,” interrupted Honorine hastily; “it must not be accomplished; you will oppose it… ” “You cannot be ignorant, Mademoiselle,” replied the Countess coldly, ” that the authority of a woman, and especially of a mother, always stops at questions where men have placed their honor. My prayers would be useless and you alone can prevent everything. “Me, Madame, and by what means?” “By sparing Arthur the outrage which irritates and afflicts him. I suppose that you still can, and that you are not so committed elsewhere that another has the right to regulate your conduct. ” “I have given no one such right,” replied Honorine, her eyes lowered. “Then,” resumed the countess briskly, “it is only a question of one of those young girl’s preferences which are the romance of all of us, on leaving the convent. Think about it, Honorine, you have in your hands your reputation, your happiness, two lives perhaps!… Will you sacrifice them to a frivolous fantasy?” Madame de Luxeuil pronounced these last words in a softer tone, and, seeing that the young girl was silent, she thought it her duty to recall all the reasons which made her marriage to Arthur indispensable for both of them. She spoke for a long time with skill and authority; Honorine listened, leaning against the open window, her arms hanging, her head bowed, and in an attitude of dejection. Suddenly, a rhythmic whistling sound was heard below the balcony. The young girl raised her head: it was the call formerly used at the convent by the old gardener, and which Marc had accepted as a warning. At the same moment, a paper arrow shot through the air and fell at her feet. She leaned hastily over the balcony; a messenger in a velvet jacket, with a saw on his shoulder, was crossing the threshold of the great door. The surprised countess stood up. “What do this signal and this paper mean?” she asked, glancing into the deserted courtyard. Instead of replying, Honorine wanted to raise the arrow; but her aunt prevented her. “You doubtless know what this missive contains?” she said, looking suspiciously at her niece. “Not at all… Madame…” Honorine replied, troubled. The Countess unrolled the arrow and removed a note, artfully hidden in the spiral of paper. “A letter!” she cried. “A letter!” repeated the young girl. “It explains, no doubt, the cause of your refusals more clearly than you were willing to do,” added Madame de Luxeuil. “Madame, I protest that I do not know what this note may contain. ” “Then you will allow me to read it to you.” And unfolding the letter, she read aloud. “A great danger threatens you! The first time I made myself known to you, I could only say to you: “Be careful! I did not yet know the interest that could be had in making friends with you; now I know; they want to marry you to your cousin!” This marriage is promised to his… Here Madame de Luxeuil stopped abruptly, she quickly scanned the rest of the letter, uttered two or three exclamations of astonishment at first, then of anger, and finally arrived at the signature. “Marc!” she cried. “Who is this man? You know him then? ” “I know him,” said Honorine, struck by what she had just heard. “And what right has he to write to you?” the Countess continued impetuously. “What is he, finally? Answer at once, answer, Mademoiselle.” As she spoke, she had advanced towards her niece, her eyes sparkling, and crumpling Marc’s note; but the young girl held her gaze with an almost calm boldness. Strange mystery of the human soul which a single encouragement draws from its deepest depressions! This signal and this letter had been enough to raise her up. She was no longer alone in the world; she felt supported! The few lines that had been read had just made her glimpse in the proposed marriage a sort of plot, and she had understood that this revelation would change her position towards the Countess and her cousin; from supplicant she could become accuser! Also, courage suddenly returned to her with hope. –Madame the Countess will allow me to keep silent about a secret that is not only mine, she said firmly. “So you confess ,” said Madame de Luxeuil, surprised and irritated by such an unexpected change. “There are people outside whom you dare not make known and whose advice guides you, in accusing us! For this letter is an infamous denunciation! ” “Madame la Comtesse has not allowed me to judge it,” observed Honorine. “Ah! Don’t feign ignorance,” cried Arthur’s mother, “these lies are not the first that have been written to you against us; before my son’s request, you were already warned! Don’t try to hide it, Mademoiselle. You were warned to be on your guard against our plans, they were blackened, this marriage was presented to you as a speculation that was to enrich us. Why keep silent? Confess, confess everything!” Carried away by anger, the Countess thus revealed to the young girl, without realizing it, the contents of Marc’s letter; Honorine raised her eyes with a certain surprise. “Until this moment I had ignored these accusations,” she said, looking at Madame de Luxeuil, “and you, Madame, are the first to enlighten me. ” “Enlighten you,” repeated the Countess, exasperated by the young girl’s firmness and her own clumsiness, “that is to say, you accept these calumnies as true? Your title of rich heiress seems to you a sufficient right to all pride! ” “This is the second time that Madame la Comtesse has spoken of this wealth of which I had never thought,” Honorine interrupted sharply; “but since I obtained it by chance, she will recognize, no doubt, that such a favor can in no way diminish my freedom, and that I remain mistress to enjoy it alone or to choose the one who is to share it.” Madame de Luxeuil stepped back a step. “Ah! You take it like that,” she said, her voice trembling. “You are finally declaring your will! Good! I prefer revolt to dissimulation; you ask for war, you shall have it!… ” “I did not seek it, Madame,” Honorine observed gently. ” There was neither provocation nor threat in my words; I only claimed my rights… ” “Your rights!” interrupted the Countess explosively. “Unhappy woman! But you have none! ” “What!” cried Honorine, stupefied. “I kept silent as long as I could,” continued Madame de Luxeuil; “my pity and my mad affection restrained me; but such ingratitude finally deserves punishment. You want to resist us, you talk of rights! Well!” Listen, and blame only yourself for what you are about to learn, for you will have wanted it!… The position you enjoy, the fortune that makes you proud, the name you bear… all this is theft! “Great God! What do you mean! ” “You are not the daughter of General Louis!” Honorine stepped back to the Baroness’s portrait. “No,” continued Madame de Luxeuil with hateful fury; “and if the general had lived, you would now be rotting in the depths of a beggar’s hospice, for he knew the truth! ” “The truth!” repeated Honorine, distraught; “and whose daughter am I, Madame? ” “Your mother’s lover. ” “Ah! you’re lying!” cried the orphan, sitting up, pale and with indignant eyes. A flash of light crossed the Countess’s features: she abruptly withdrew a piece of paper hidden in her bodice and took a step toward her niece. “Veal this portrait,” she said through clenched teeth; “veil it so that he cannot see or hear us, and since you need proof, read it!” She handed the paper to the young girl, who took it, shivering, and opened it. “Do you know this handwriting?” asked Madame de Luxeuil. “It’s my mother’s,” replied Honorine, startled. “Read it.” The young girl looked back at the note, which contained only a few words, and mechanically read the following: ” My friend, The general has discovered everything; he knows that Honorine is not his daughter! Come, if you want to save us both!” These three lines were addressed to the Duke of Saint-Alofe. Honorine read them a second time, unable to believe her eyes, then looked at the Countess with a bewildered air. The force of surprise and emotion had taken away her speech. “So it is not I who lied,” Madame de Luxeuil continued, pointing to the letter with a gesture of poignant irony; “no, it is not I, but she who has usurped a name she has no right to bear, a fortune that is ours!… For do you finally understand, unfortunate abandoned woman, that everything that makes you proud is a loan owed to my pity; that you who speak of freedom of choice would be rejected by everyone if I wanted it; that to throw you back into shame and misery, I would only have to say a word? ” “Ah! you won’t say it!” cried Honorine, torn from her torpor by this threat. “I will say it since I was forced to,” continued Madame de Luxeuil; ” I prayed for this marriage; I warned you that my son’s happiness, his peace of mind, perhaps his life, depended on it; you listened to nothing, well! I too will be implacable. Since you spoke of rights, I will assert mine, and I will go and claim back the inheritance that was stolen from us, this letter in my hand… ” “No!” cried Honorine, running in a frenzy to the Countess, whose hands she tried to seize; “Oh! no, you will not take revenge so cruelly, Madame… For myself, I ask nothing; but for my mother, Madame, mercy for the memory of my mother.” “And why should I show more devotion to this memory than her daughter herself shows,” observed Madame de Luxeuil. “Was it not her daughter who forced me into this shameful revelation? To avoid it, I had formed a plan which confused her interests with those of my son; I wanted to justify by the alliance a usurped position, to make that one who has no right to call herself my niece legitimately become my daughter… She rejected my request… She doubted my intentions… she insulted me! ” The Countess broke off: whether she had judged it necessary to feign sensitivity, or the length of this debate had shaken her nerves and she yielded to an involuntary physical emotion, her voice, at first broken, faded, and a few tears wet her eyelids. This unexpected tenderness broke what strength remained in Honorine. Overcome by the contagion of tears which is so difficult to protect oneself from, and succumbing to so many successive trials, she let herself slide to Madame de Luxeuil’s feet, leaned her forehead on the two hands she had seized, and said to her, sobbing: “May my mother’s honor be saved, Madame, and then… do with me what you will! ” Chapter 18. The very next day, Madame de Luxeuil wrote to Mother Louis and to Monsieur le Conseiller de Vercy, Honorine’s guardian, to ask for their permission; but, sure that it could not be refused, she announced the marriage in advance to all the family’s friends. De Gausson was devastated; the others, by misunderstanding the intimacy established between Arthur and his cousin, might have predicted this marriage for a long time; but he knew Honorine too well for him to be able to fear it. For a year he had been studying this delicate and tender nature, he had been able to understand the gulf that separated her from her cousin. His last conversation had also persuaded him that his love was understood and accepted. So he hesitated to believe, until the moment when the news was confirmed to him by de Luxeuil. The latter, whose suspicions had naturally fallen on Marcel, at the time of Honorine’s first refusal, wanted to clarify his doubts by speaking to him at length about this marriage; but de Gausson listened to everything without expressing either surprise or apparent trouble. Experience of the world had accustomed him to these trials, which make our salons a battlefield where courage is in impassivity. Compressing therefore the violence of his pain, he thought only of seeing Honorine in order to explain himself with her. The announced union was too unexpected for him not to suspect some surprise or trap; but the difficulty was to reach the young girl. In our customs, full of constraints and false appearances, custom has established an almost absolute separation between those who would most need to see each other, to study each other, to know each other. It is only surreptitiously, and by encounter, that the young man and the young girl can freely exchange their thoughts. Apart from these unexpected chances, the two should only see each other through the family, a kind of veil placed between their souls, as is placed elsewhere between their eyes. De Gausson tried in vain to reach Honorine: he found her always watched, surrounded. Madame de Luxeuil had redoubled her precautions and hardly left her. Twenty times Marcel was on the point of addressing the young girl openly to ask to be alone with her for a moment, and always the yoke of custom held him back. No promise had been made to him; he could not even rely on a confession received! His love and that of Honorine, visible to both, had not emerged from that first twilight which gives so much charm to nascent passion; his rights could be felt but not formulated. A letter would have been powerless to express them; to assert them, all the independence of a long outpouring was required. Marcel continued to seek the opportunity, but the days passed without offering it to him. The moment of the marriage approached; he understood at last that the time for an explanation had passed; in any case, useless perhaps, it became inopportune and impossible after such a long delay. The young girl, moreover, seemed herself to be fleeing him. Trembling at the sight of Marcel, she avoided looking at him, avoiding speaking to him. He
ended up believing that he had been mistaken. He told himself that all that had taken place was one of those games of the heart with which most young girls amuse themselves for a few days, attempts at novels without significance or sequel, which they renounce at the same time as long correspondences and friends from the convent. This thought was a sharp point that sank deep into his soul; unable to bear the pain, he resolved to escape by flight. Before leaving, he only wanted to see Honorine one last time. He found her in the company of her aunt and Madame des Brotteaux; Arthur, Marquier, and de Cillart were talking at the other end of the room. At the moment when she was announced, Madame des Brotteaux cried out with more vivacity than usual. “Ah! so much the better; we will take M. de Gausson as judge!” Honorine, who had shuddered at the name of Marcel, wanted to hold her back; but she continued: “No, no, I want him to give his opinion, he who knows you well and is one of your friends; come, Monsieur Marcel, come.” The young man approached, asking what it was about. “It is a serious question,” said the Countess, laughing, “and to decide it, we need all your knowledge. ” “Don’t influence him!” resumed Hortense, “he must give his opinion frankly. It is about the wedding basket.” Marcel’s lips tightened, and his hand convulsively pressed the brim of the hat he was holding; but his voice remained firm as he asked what the difficulty was in judging. “First, do me the pleasure of looking at this dear little girl,” said Madame des Brotteaux, who turned towards Honorine. Marcel’s gaze followed the direction indicated, and met that of the young girl, who blushed, forced herself to smile, then lowered her eyes with a frightful palpitation of the heart. “You see her,” resumed Madame des Brotteaux, “well! now, tell us which color suits her better, pink or blue? ” “Truly, Madame,” said de Gausson with an effort, “you presume too much on my observation or my taste; I fear that my advice would destroy the good opinion you are willing to have of her.” “It’s a defeat,” replied Hortense insistently. “I want to know what color you prefer to see Honorine in. ” “The color I prefer,” repeated de Gausson slowly, casting a moved look at the young girl. “Precisely; is it pink? ” “No, Madame. ” “Then it’s blue!” she cried, turning triumphantly to Madame de Luxeuil. “You see, dear Countess, he is of my opinion. ” “Yes,” continued de Gausson, whose eyes had, so to speak, forgotten themselves on Honorine; “it was the color Mademoiselle wore the first time I saw her… at the Prioress’s…” Although these words had been spoken without apparent intention, there was, in the timbre of his voice, a nuance which did not escape the young girl. It was at once sadness, love, and reproach. She felt her heart fail. Madame de Luxeuil also seemed struck, not by Marcel’s accent , but by his words. “You saw my niece before she arrived in Paris?” she asked. “Passing through Touraine, Madame, twelve years ago. ” “Twelve years!… Ah! You were children then,” the Countess continued, relieved; “I am only surprised that Honorine never spoke to me of this meeting. ” “It was an unimportant circumstance in Mademoiselle’s life, ” observed de Gausson, with a slight hint of bitterness. “My God! Who remembers twelve years?” said Madame des Brotteaux, who had resumed her nonchalance; “but M. de Gausson has a miraculous memory. Would you believe that he recognized all the villages when, on our way to the seaside, we crossed Normandy? ” “I was brought up there,” replied de Gausson; I have walked it twenty times in every direction… “And you wanted us to walk it too,” interrupted Madame des Brotteaux. “Oh! if you only knew what walks there are, Countess! Imagine the dunes exposed to the sun and the wind, the horrible paths… where one is forced to walk! I thought I would die. ” “M. de Gausson nevertheless praises the beauty of his country,” objected Madame de Luxeuil. ” Leave it then, I would like to see him forced to live there. ” “Your wish will be granted, Madame,” said Marcel, “for I am leaving in a few days for Normandy. ” “You!” repeated the Countess and Madame des Brotteaux in haste. “I came to pay you my farewell visit.” Honorine could hardly suppress a cry. The memory previously awakened by de Gausson had already shaken her, but this sudden announcement of departure finally broke her courage. The idea that she would never see Marcel again, and that he was going to leave unhappy and irritated, silenced everything else. The exaltation of devotion that had until then stunned her gave way to despair, then to the resolution to justify herself by confessing everything to de Gausson. A new incident came to cross this temptation. During the interview we have just related, Arthur and the visitors gathered at the other end of the room had continued, on their side, a conversation that had become more and more animated. Marquier seemed the hero, and, from the multiplicity of his gestures and his affirmations, it was easy to guess that he had to overcome the incredulity of a part of his listeners. “When I tell you again that I have it from the cashier!” he cried at last; “that he has received the two hundred thousand francs; that he has counted them! “What is it then?” asked Madame de Luxeuil, astonished by the banker’s warmth . “Ah! by Jove, we must tell these ladies about it,” cried de Cillart, laughing. “Come now, Marquier, start your novel again for them. ” “I maintain that it is a story,” replied the latter, “and I offer the captain a hundred louis bet. ” “Don’t accept!” interrupted Arthur; “if he wants to bet, it’s because he’s sure to win. ” “But what is it all about?” resumed the Countess. “My God! A philanthropist’s folly,” continued Marquier, “the Countess must have heard of the author of The Future Unveiled?” Madame de Luxeuil cast a quick glance in Honorine’s direction. “Yes, who doesn’t know this old dreamer?” resumed de Cillart, shrugging his shoulders. “He used to send his books free to everyone; I myself have received some.” “With the invariable Latin epigraph: Omnis omnibus. ” “Yes; they gave him a nickname, and the little newspapers called him only the Duke omnis omnibus. ” “Let’s adopt the name,” said Madame de Luxeuil briskly, “I don’t want any other. ” “Omnis omnibus,” resumed Marquier, laughing; “this is what I told these gentlemen about him. At the time when the Duke was still rich, he had as a friend M. de Lannaut, the father of the present-day bankers, who was also in business. It even seems that the old man appreciated the Duke’s ideas, and that he dreamed, like him, of the happiness of the human race!… There has always been something unhinged in this family…. “Finally,” asked Madame Luxeuil, who seemed ill at ease and impatient with Marquier’s story. “Finally,” continued the latter, “by dint of occupying himself with the company’s affairs, Father Lannaut let his own get disturbed, so that one fine day he found himself with liabilities that exceeded his assets by nearly a hundred thousand crowns! The old man had no choice but to turn around and make money out of everything, but bankruptcy was inevitable. Then, no longer knowing where to find help, ruined, dishonored, he lost his head and fled. He had already reached Le Havre where he was going to embark, when he received a letter from his cashier, who informed him that all the tickets presented had been paid. “Paid!” cried Honorine, who, distracted at first, had ended up listening in spite of herself and becoming interested. “Entirely!” added Marquier, “and that by a stranger.” All the women uttered an exclamation. “This is where we turn into a fairy tale,” said de Cillart. “Not at all,” continued Marquier, “for the so-called stranger was none other than the Duke omnis omnibus, who, returning from a short trip, had learned from the cashier himself of Lannaut’s flight, and had immediately stripped himself of all the funds he had available at his notary’s. “But you pass over the most marvelous thing!” cried Cillart; “which is that your Duke had demanded secrecy from the cashier, and that the said Lannaut died without knowing to whom he owed these two hundred thousand francs. ” “But he did not owe them!” cried Marquier; I have already told you that there was neither deed nor receipt. “Well! I declare,” resumed the bodyguard, “that I cannot believe in such madness. ” “You are wrong,” resumed de Gausson seriously; “I knew the notary into whose hands the funds were placed, and I knew, for a long time, all the details of this affair. ” “Will you believe me now?” asked Marquier, turning towards de Cillart. The latter bent his shoulders. “Then I have only one word to reply,” he said, “that omnis omnibus was an escapee from Charenton. ” “The unfortunate man!” observed Madame des Brotteaux, “lose two hundred thousand francs!” “If only he had asked for a receipt,” added Marquier. “My God! his life is full of such traits,” resumed Madame de Luxeuil, with the evident desire to put an end to this conversation; It would be more generous not to recall them and to imitate the charitable silence of M. de Gausson. “I would like to be able to accept the approbation of the Countess,” he said, bowing gravely; “but I have not deserved it, and if I remain silent, it is because far from being able to associate myself with the anathemas of which the Duke is the object, I could only express admiration for him. ” The astonishment seemed general. “What!” cried de Cillart, “even for the gift of two hundred thousand francs? ” “For him especially,” resumed Marcel, growing animated, “for what M. Marquier has not told you is that the man saved by the Duke was one of our most ingenious and boldest industrialists; that his ruin stopped twenty attempts, the success of which could enrich the country; that it reduced several hundred families to poverty; that to prevent it , finally, was not only an act of a friend, but of a good citizen. It should also be added that the duke only made a secret of his generous assistance because he knew Mr. Lannaut was capable of refusing it and of preferring, in his discouragement, immediate ruin to obligations which he would have feared he could not fulfill. “It is with such reasoning that this poor duke ate a million!” said Marquier, sneering. “And that he ended up in the hospital,” added de Cillart. “While the Lannaut sons have equipage and they mock, like everyone else, omnis omnibus,” finished Arthur. “You see, my dear de Gausson,” resumed the bodyguard, “as long as the world remains what it is, devotion will be the pride of fools.” “No,” said Marcel with calm firmness, “that will be the virtue of the courageous! A day will come, I hope, when more intelligent societies will not need the sacrifice of a few for the salvation of the greatest number and when the happiness of each will contribute to the happiness of all; but until then, it is up to the generous to accept self-denial, to forget themselves for others, to nourish the world with their soul and their blood. ” “And the world, once nourished, will mock them,” objected Marquier. “Perhaps,” continued Marcel; “but for one who has set himself a task, what does approval matter? Devotion is martyrdom; it is strengthened by its sufferings, it is encouraged by its abandonment, it draws its joys and its rewards from itself. Everything loses its charm in the long run; passions cool, ambitions deceive, hopes tire; but nothing can take away that sweet savor left by the memory of good done.” Whoever devotes himself must accept pain, injustice, disdain, for it is from these bitter flowers that the honey is composed that softens the sufferings of old age!… De Gausson had allowed himself to be carried away, without realizing it, in the expression of his most intimate thoughts; the smiles of Marquier, Arthur and the bodyguard suddenly recalled to him the memory of the place and the audience; he blushed a little, interrupted himself abruptly and stood up. But his words had struck Honorine. Ready to regret the sacrifice she was making to the memory of her mother, she had found in them a kind of appropriateness that seized her. It seemed to her that this encouragement to devotion in Marcel’s mouth had something more eloquent than in any other; that it was finally a providential warning which she was not allowed to resist! This sensation was so complete and so vivid that her plan to confide everything to the young man was instantly abandoned, and she returned with a sort of passionate enthusiasm at the idea of silent sacrifice. So, when de Gausson approached her to take his leave, she summoned all the strength she had left to receive him with a calm air. Marcel took her hand, raised it to his lips, and pronounced the words farewell with an expression of stifled despair! She felt an icy shudder run through her veins; but her lips repeated farewell with a sort of mechanical coldness. It was only when the young man left that her strength abandoned her. She put both hands to her breaking heart and let herself fall back into her armchair, without thought or movement. This disturbance, which had escaped neither the Countess nor her son, confirmed their suspicions. So, although the departure of M. Marcel de Gausson seemed likely to reassure them, they resolved to redouble their surveillance. The letter thrown through Honorine’s window, and intercepted by the Countess, had always remained an inexplicable mystery to them. Who was this hidden protector who, under the name of Marc, watched over the young girl? The latter could have told them, but Madame de Luxeuil feared, with reason, that a new explanation would bring new debates, and, consequently, some change in Honorine’s resolutions. The authorization requested from Grandmother Louis had arrived, all that remained to be received was that of the guardian, M. de Vercy, whose silence was beginning to astonish de Luxeuil and her mother; but they finally learned the cause of this delay. Sharing the reluctance of all provincials to use the post, the councilor had entrusted his letter to a substitute of the court of Angers who was going to Paris and who had wanted to deliver it himself. This reply contained a regular authorization for the publication of the marriage with a model contract; it also announced the arrival of M. de Vercy, called to Paris on personal business. This news worried Arthur and Madame de Luxeuil. They skillfully questioned the substitute on the intentions that M. de Vercy might have expressed, and on the matter that obliged him to leave Angers, but he was unable to give them any clarification. He only spoke to them of a second letter entrusted to them by the councilor, which he searched in his wallet. It was addressed: To Monsieur Marc, Office Boy. Rue des Morts, No. 16. At the name Marc, the mother and son exchanged a glance. “I hope at least that you will not deliver this letter to your home?” remarked Madame de Luxeuil. “Forgive me, Madame la Comtesse,” said the deputy. “M. de Vercy asked me to deliver it personally.” The countess protested. “But he didn’t think of that,” she said, “it’s outside the city.” “I was, in fact, a little frightened yesterday when I looked for Rue des Morts on a map of Paris,” admitted the deputy. “Not to mention that you could go there ten times before meeting this man. ” “Wouldn’t it be enough to post the letter?” asked Arthur. The deputy objected, fearing a mistake in address or a change of address. “Well! Give it to me,” Madame de Luxeuil continued, “I will have it delivered. ” “A thousand thanks, Madame la Comtesse; but I would not dare to abuse you to this extent… ” “Give it, I tell you, I will send my hunter, and he will return several times if necessary. Let Monsieur come to dine with us the day after tomorrow, I will be able to inform him of the result of his research.” The deputy was profuse in his thanks, and finally withdrew, delighted with the Countess’s kindness. Hardly had he left than Arthur ran to close the door, while his mother opened M. de Vercy’s letter. It was a reply to the one written by Marc, on leaving Madame Beauclerc’s, and in which he denounced Arthur’s true motives in seeking his cousin’s hand. The advisor, without believing or disputing anything, declared that he would be in Paris towards the end of the month for an investment of funds and repayments, and that he would then request more detailed clarifications. The mother and son understood at the same time that, if they did not prevent Marc’s revelations, all was lost. At whatever cost, they must therefore win him over, frighten him, or deceive him. But to know which of these methods to attempt, it was first necessary to know the man with whom they were dealing. As they were looking for ways to achieve this without compromising themselves, de Luxeuil was informed that Mr. Hartmann, the horse dealer, was asking to speak to him. It was a flash of light! He ordered him to be brought up to his apartment, asked his mother for the letter, and told him that they would have all the information the next day. He found the German waiting for him in his office, standing with his hat in his hand. Despite his thick red wool tie, reaching up above his ears, his thick beard which hid two- thirds of his face, and the whitish castorine greatcoat under which his thinness was disguised, our readers would have easily recognized, in the supposed Hartmann, the Alsatian Jew whose detailed description we gave at the beginning of our story. It was indeed him, indeed, but in a better position than we saw at first. Chance had been pleased to favor him: met by a compatriot who was precisely looking for a second for his industry, he had first entered his service, and, a few months later, the death of his boss had allowed him to continue the business on his own account. As for the nature of this business, it was singularly obscure. Although he established himself as a horse dealer, Mr. Hartmann did not sell horses, but he knew all the coachmen of large houses, all the jockeys, all the stable boys. No one knew better than to procure for him the placement of a defective beast, to create a genealogy for a common rider, to ensure the winning of a bet by corrupting the jockeys, or by enervating, with some drug, the feared horse. His extensive connections allowed him to add to this specialty some accessory industries which did not fail to have their profits as well. He could, if necessary, send a letter to the back of the most secure hotel, give information on the habits of the owners, procure a lodging for a fling, rented under his name in some double- entrance house where one could come without arousing suspicion, thanks to a dentist’s or dressmaker’s poster. Finally, he took charge of pawnbroking loans or the fabrication of anonymous letters intended to serve hatreds and rivalries. This university had made Moser the favorite agent of the most contemptible aspects of fashion. It was he who brought all the bad passions into contact, associated vices and married cowardice. Arthur had employed him more than once and with profit; so he did not hesitate to address himself to him for information about Marc. The Jew understood at once what was going on; He asked for the letter addressed to the office boy, so that it might serve as an introduction, and left, promising to be diligent. But at the moment when he reached the end of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and was about to turn towards the Madeleine, he found himself facing a man in military costume who, at the sight of him, stopped short: it was Jacques le Parisien. The two had separated shortly after the adventure at the Buttes forge, and they had not seen each other since. Jacques took the Alsatian to a wine merchant in the suburb and went up with him to the mezzanine, to a separate study, so that they could talk more freely. Chapter 19. A Party in an Attic. Five days after the meeting of the Parisian and Moser, the latter had not yet shown up at Marc’s, who was waiting with inexpressible impatience for M. de Vercy’s reply. Fearing that she might arrive in his absence, he had even used an indisposition as a pretext for not leaving the house, recommending that M. Brousmiche bring him immediately any letters that might arrive at his address. However, that day, another preoccupation seemed to have momentarily replaced his worries. Having gone out several times in the morning, he had just returned followed by a loaded messenger, and he had found Françoise at the door of the lodge, with whom he exchanged a sign of understanding, and who quickly retraced his steps. M. Brousmiche himself wasted no time in following them, carrying an old blue teapot with a chipped spout and three mismatched cups with which he went to the attic. It was obvious that something extraordinary was happening in old Michel’s attic. One could hear footsteps hurrying, voices speaking briskly, and laughter, sometimes loud, sometimes stifled. The old man’s absence could only explain these unusual noises. Françoise, who had been forced to go out early in the morning, had in fact asked him to look after her lodgings, where they were to present themselves for some repairs; and, only too happy to be able to render his neighbor this small service, M. Michel had brought her papers to her house and had settled himself in front of the young florist’s large table. He had been there for several hours when she came home, flushed, panting, and with bright eyes. “Ah! my poor Monsieur Michel, you must have thought I had forgotten you?” she cried. “How bored you must have been here, all alone! ” “Solitude is familiar to me,” said the old man, who, at the sight of the young girl, had put down his pen; “I was busy, anyway. ” “Your ugly figures again,” observed the young girl, glancing at the statements with red and black columns that her old neighbor was finishing. “My God! How could you have gotten used to such work, you who hate calculations? ” “Don’t you know that here below one must accept, not the task that one loves and knows how to perform, but the one that chance imposes on you?” said the old neighbor, with sad gentleness. “These figures keep me alive: they are a tax that hunger levies on my tastes and my freedom.” When I have paid it, I can become myself again. By devoting the whole day to this mechanical and sterile work, I have the evening left for thought. I give ten hours to the needs of my stomach and two hours to those of my soul. How many others are less fortunate! “That’s true,” continued the grisette; “but for today, Monsieur Michel, that’s enough. You haven’t had lunch, anyway. ” “Indeed, it must be later than usual, if I judge by my appetite. ” “You have an appetite! Ah! so much the better; give me those papers, my good Monsieur Michel, and let’s go back upstairs quickly; I have everything ready at your place.” She had taken the accounts and went upstairs quickly, followed by Monsieur Michel. Arriving at the latter’s lodgings, she knocked, saying: “It’s us!” And she stepped aside to let the old man in. The latter, astonished, crossed the threshold; but he had hardly taken a step forward when he stopped, stupefied. He no longer recognized his attic. The cracks in the roof, which had once revealed the tiles, had been lined with neatly nailed mats; muslin curtains with variegated fringes adorned the narrow window, and a fully lit earthenware stove, behind which appeared a small store of coal and driftwood, occupied one of the corners. Finally, on a table set in the middle of the attic and covered with a very white tablecloth, were served several dishes covered with plates, in the middle of which stood Monsieur Brousmiche’s chipped coffeepot. The latter himself was standing a few steps away, a smile on his lips and his silk cap in his hand, while a little further away, Marc, leaning on the old ebony armchair, looked alternately at Monsieur Michel and Françoise. Seeing her old neighbor’s surprise, the grisette could not restrain an exclamation of joy. “He suspected nothing!” she cried, clapping her hands like a child; “he suspected nothing.” Oh! What a joke! Ca n’t you guess, Monsieur Michel?… It’s your New Year’s gift! “My New Year’s gift!” repeated the old man, looking at her. “What! It’s today… ” “New Year’s Day! You didn’t know that! Oh! so much the better. But don’t you think we’ve used our time well? Look, there won’t be any more wind coming through the roof; there are mats everywhere; it was Monsieur Marc who laid them down; for Monsieur Marc is involved in all this; and Monsieur Brousmiche too. But speak up, my good Monsieur Michel, you look very funny! At least say that you’re happy.” The old man held out his hand to the girl, then to Marc, then to Brousmiche, and a tear came to hang on his whitened eyelashes. The girl and the little hunchback could not see this emotion without sharing it. –Come, come, what we have done… is not worth… so many thanks, said Françoise in a voice that trembled with tenderness : Mr. Marc had savings… and so did I… by pooling our purses we were able to buy the mats first and then the stove… because the stove is not new, Mr. Michel, it is a opportunity, we got it for nothing… and as for the wood, it was Mr. Brousmiche who gave part of his supply… “I had too much,” the hunchback interrupted sharply: “on my word, it’s a service Mr. Michel is doing me. It will prevent me from heating the lodge as I always did, to the temperature of Senegal. Madame Berton, the pharmacist’s cleaning lady, told me that there was nothing more unhealthy for Lolo and Fanfan. ” “So don’t try to justify yourself, Father Brousmiche,” said Marc, who saw that the explanations increased the old man’s emotion. “We did Mr. Michel a neighborly courtesy, as one has the right to do on the first of January; that’s it! Only, I warn him that we invited ourselves to lunch with him, and if he allows it, we will not let the dishes get any colder. ” “You are right, my friend,” said Mr. Michel with a smile in the middle of which tears still trembled. Expression is always lacking in sincere gratitude; for gifts made from the heart, the best thanks is to enjoy them. So, do not fear that I will affect regret or humiliation. You wanted to give some comfort to a poor old man who can only reward you with his joy, well ! be satisfied, my friends: he is happy. M. Michel then began to go through his transformed attic, to examine everything in detail, to try everything with the eagerness and cries of a child. He opened and closed the curtains, made sure that the breeze could not penetrate the mats that covered the roof, stopped in front of the stove whose roar announced its activity, came to the table, where the dishes discovered by Françoise were beginning to spread their appetizing aroma; then, his examination completed, he began again with the same pleasure. The young girl laughed, jumped and sang with joy. “Come now, that’s enough, Monsieur Michel,” she said, however, after a while; “you can resume your inventory later. Quickly to the table, for I have a thousand things to do after lunch… First I must write to Charles. ” “What, won’t he come and wish you a happy new year?” asked the old neighbor, sitting down in the armchair Marc had brought for him. “He came three days ago,” said the young girl, who also sat down at the table with the office boy and Brousmiche; “he even brought me my New Year’s gift… A pound of fine sugared almonds! You’ll taste them for dessert… But I met someone yesterday who might be of use to him. ” “What meeting? ” “Ah! It’s at the Hôtel des Étrangers, you know, on the Rue Richelieu.” Madame Ouvrard had ordered some flowers for the flower boxes in the drawing-room, and while bringing them to her, I met a traveler in the parlor who was asking for the address of a Monsieur Dufloc, who apparently deals in banking ; but he couldn’t find him in the Almanach du commerce. Perhaps you know him, Monsieur Marc? “No,” replied the office boy. “Nor I, but Madame Ouvrard, who, when she came one evening to place an order for me, saw Charles at my house, and to whom I was obliged to tell who he was, what he did… and that we were married… Madame Ouvrard remembered everything at once; she replied that my husband was a clerk in a banker’s office, and that he could perhaps give Monsieur Dufloc’s address. ” “And the stranger asked you to ask him for it?” “Oh! not only that!” He questioned me a lot about Charles, he wanted to know where he worked, what he earned, and he ended up telling me that he wanted to see him, that he could perhaps entrust him with a business that would bring him a lot of money. You understand that I wrote to Charles straight away, but he didn’t reply, and that’s why I’m going to send him a second letter… “A thousand apologies, Mademoiselle Françoise,” interrupted Brousmiche, raising his head; “but I seem to hear someone on the stairs… I entrusted the cord to Madame Breton, and I’m afraid that, through lack of practice, she’ll let some unscrupulous people come up…” You
will excuse me if I check with my own eyes… While speaking, the hunchback had reached the door, which he opened. “What does Monsieur want?” he said from the entrance, seeing a man in a jacket on the lower landing. “So Monsieur Marc has gone out?” said the stranger, who was pointing to the office boy’s room . “Excuse me,” continued the hunchback, “he has the pleasure of being here in society; and I will have the pleasure of warning him…” But the visitor did not give him time; he crossed the stairs, boldly pushed back the half-open door, and found himself facing the guests. “It seems you are better,” he said cheerfully, raising his hand to his cap. “Here, Ferret!” cried the office boy. “At your service, Monsieur Marc,” said the newcomer, who, as if by habit, looked around quickly to take in the surroundings, “I came to see you and wish you a happy and prosperous time.” “Thank you, my boy,” said Marc, getting up and going to the Ferret; “I return the wish. ” “Too honest, Monsieur Marc, I was also asked by the boss to find out if you were feeling less ill… ” “Did you have something to tell me from him?” asked the office boy below. “No,” said the Ferret, who exchanged a meaningful look with him; “there’s nothing new, except that we need you at the office to find the address… of a bad payer. ” “I’ll go tomorrow. ” “That’s enough, Monsieur Marc, I wish you a good appetite then, as well as the company, much pleasure and good fortune… ” He was about to return to the door where Monsieur Brousmiche continued to stand, when Françoise intervened. “Monsieur won’t leave without a drink to our health,” she said, getting up to get a glass, “please ask him to stay a moment, Monsieur Marc.” “That’s right,” continued the office boy, “come here, Ferret; it’s Bordeaux… and corked! ” “Pardon, excuse me,” said Ferret, “it’s because I’ve already had lunch with fat Georges.” “No matter, no matter,” insinuated M. Brousmiche, who, at Françoise’s invitation, had closed the door; “Bordeaux is like the lizard, it’s a friend of man. That’s why the ancients called it the milk of old men. Come here, sir, I beg you. ” Ferret yielded, apologizing, took the glass Françoise offered him, and approached the table. M. Michel, who had remained a stranger to the conversation until then, stood up with the bottle in his hand to pour him a drink; but at the sight of him, Ferret remained with his arm outstretched, his eyes wide open, and as if petrified by surprise. “What’s the matter?” asked Marc. “What I have,” repeated the man in the jacket, whose gaze remained fixed on the old man, “is that… it seems to me… yes… I’m not mistaken… I’ve already seen Monsieur. ” “Me,” said Monsieur Michel, smiling, “and when? ” “When I was a guard at Vanvres. ” Monsieur Michel put the bottle back on the table. “You were a guard?” he cried. “At Vanvres,” repeated Marc; “there’s nothing there but a madhouse… ” “Monsieur had number 121,” replied the Ferret. The old man sank back into his armchair. Françoise, Marc, and the hunchback were stunned. “So you didn’t notice anything?” continued the Ferret, more quietly, looking at Monsieur Michel. “In fact, he has his good times; that’s why he was less watched and why he took advantage of them to escape.” “What!” cried Françoise, clasping her hands, “it would be possible! M. Michel could… M. Michel would have been… No, you must take him for someone else. ” “He does not take me for someone else,” said the old man bitterly. “Yes, my friends, this reason which you believed I enjoyed, justice has declared it absent! The one you considered your equal is only a madman who escaped from his lodge and whom a word can bring back. ” “But how could that have happened?” asked Françoise anxiously. “Ah! that would be a long story, dear child,” said M. Michel, “it would be necessary tell you the story of my whole life. “If it were known, perhaps a way might be found to repair the mistake made with regard to Mr. Michel,” Marc observed. The old man shook his head. “No mistake was made,” he said sadly; “in the eyes of the world in which we live, what has been done is well done. But your kindness to me has given you the right to know who I am. Trust is the only generosity that the unfortunate can show. Listen to me, then, and you will judge me afterward.” All the guests resumed their places; the Ferret went to find a ragged chair, on which he sat, and the old man began. Chapter 20. Mr. Michel. The story I have to tell you,” he said, “could be summed up in a few sentences, for it contains little more than observations. The life of a philosopher is not that of an adventurer, and the drama for him is in the ideas much more than in the incidents; but I promised to make myself known to you, and, for that, I need to say by what series of facts and inductions I was able to be led to become what I am. Perhaps these details, which have so much interest in my eyes, will have only a moderate interest in yours. If I tire you, remember that an old man cannot go back over the roads he has traveled for thirty years without stopping at certain places. This review of the past, which I begin for your benefit, I will perhaps prolong for myself. The flood of memories will carry me away, and I will be able to forget the listeners; but the listeners are friends, they will show themselves indulgent. “Say that they will be only too happy to listen to you,” Françoise continued, filling her neighbor’s glass and placing it within reach of his hand. Tell it your way, go on, my good Mr. Michel. We know well that ignorant people like us cannot understand everything; but it always does good to unburden our hearts. There are moments, I, when I would tell my plans and my sorrows to my false flowers; do the same and worry about nothing. As soon as it interests you, it cannot fail to please us. The old man gave the grisette a tender smile and began: “There are destinies that are announced from afar, and that man can guess from his childhood; in mine, on the contrary, everything was unforeseen.” Born in 1774, into one of the richest and most titled families in Touraine, I was raised by my widowed mother in the castle whose name we bore, knowing nothing of the troubles that were beginning to shake France and preparing the great Revolution of 89. Devoted solely to works of charity, my mother lived a stranger to all public events, and my most serious occupations were hunting or the work of my turner’s workshop, established in one of the rooms of the castle. For recreation, I had horseback riding and visits to the farmers; for the rural nobility of our provinces did not live like that of the cities, far removed from the people who returned with hatred what was given to them with contempt; far from it, mingled with our peasants, we regarded them as a part of our existence. They were old servants whose fathers had known our fathers, whose sons had grown up with our sons; we knew them all by name, we knew the history of each of them; we were their recourse in every disgrace, as they were our support in every need, and this exchange of services had established between the noble and the vassal a solidarity which always bound them together by habit and often by affection. However, when the Revolution broke out, my mother, led by the example of the neighboring nobility who went abroad, decided to send me to Germany. On arriving at Coblenz, I found one of my relatives there: he was a cousin of the same age as me, and who, not yet being a chief in name and arms, called himself then the Chevalier de Rieul. He had thrown himself into these court intrigues by which the emigration hoped to stop the victorious expansion of the republic. He introduced me to the leaders of the royalist party, but their projects and their pretensions caused me, from the first interview, a surprise mixed with repulsion. Brought up in the practice of an almost fraternal equality, nothing had altered the rectitude of my reason, and men had remained for me creatures diversely gifted but kneaded from the same clay. The revolutionary principles against which my companions were indignant, were precisely in my mind, without ever having thought about them; I believed what they rejected, and I rejected what they wanted to defend; evidently chance had guided me badly: I had made a mistake in the camp! I therefore thought only of returning to France as quickly as possible, and events were not long in helping me. Prussia and Holland had resigned themselves to peace after the battle of Fleurus; The Reign of Terror had just ended, the Directory was openly favoring the return of the proscribed; I was preparing to take advantage, with a part of the nobility, of this unexpected clemency, when I learned of my mother’s death. This dreadful news hastened my departure. I left Vienna in a hurry, followed by my cousin, and we arrived together in Paris. The knight’s first care was to have our names erased from the lists of emigrants, and to claim his family’s property, which, by a happy chance, had not been sold. As for mine, it was lost forever. The woods we owned in Poitou had been cut down; the farms in Brittany divided up and acquired by different owners; finally, the estate of La Brisaie bought by a citizen Michel about whom I could not be given any information. But by handing over the castle of my fathers to another, the nation had not been able to sell him my memories; This land, which no longer belonged to me, nevertheless remained the scene of my past, and I was always sure to find there the corner of land where my mother lay. So I took no further information, and I left for Touraine. When I reached the village of Preuilly, which the land of Brisaie touched, day was already beginning to fall. I crossed the village quickly; but, having arrived at the last houses, I stopped, my heart oppressed by an inexpressible anguish. I had just crossed a ravaged country where I had seen only destroyed high forests, fallow fields and burnt houses! In what state would I find our old domain? Did the castle still exist, and, if it did, would the new owner allow me to enter it? Wanting to enlighten myself in this regard, I approached an old woman who was spinning near her door, and I asked her the road to the castle. “Straight ahead,” she replied without raising her eyes. At this answer, my heart beat with joy. “And can we visit it?” I added. “Why not?” replied the old woman. “Then Monsieur Michel does not live there? ” “Monsieur Michel!” she repeated, looking at me, “what does the citizen want with Monsieur Michel? ” “I would like to see him and speak to him. ” “Then let the citizen go on his way; this is not the gate of the castle. ” I moved away, surprised by the old woman’s abruptness, and addressed myself a little further on to a young boy of about fifteen , who answered my first questions with jovial eagerness : but scarcely had I pronounced Monsieur Michel’s name than his face changed expression; he looked at me with a defiant air, turned on his heels, and disappeared behind the last house in the village. I remained even more astonished than the first time, and not knowing what to think of this visible reluctance of the old people and children to speak of the new owner of the Brisaie. However, I continued on my way and arrived in front of the great avenue. Nothing had been changed. It was the same green barrier shaded by two lime trees; the same posts decorated with stone lions; the same avenue of ash trees at the end of which stood the castle. This one appeared to me soon closer, lit by the setting sun. Everything was in the same state as when I had left it. The same crowbar, encrusted with steel, hung from the chain of the entrance bell; the same bench on which the old people sat stood below. I saw again the little door through which my mother escaped in the morning to visit the sick in the neighborhood, and I recognized its worn threshold, its lock painted by use. I pressed my finger on the secret spring that made it work; the door opened and I found myself in the courtyard. There everything was also in its place: the vines, carefully trimmed, framed the ground-floor windows; the Bengal roses, mingled with the white jasmines, shaded, as before, the large well; the same crates of orange trees were arranged along the steps. Not a blade of grass in the sandy paths, not a speck of moss on the thresholds! Everything smelled of habitation, with nothing to indicate the new owner. As I approached the gate, a dog came out of the stone niche: it was Fingal, our old guardian; he probably didn’t recognize me, for his barking attracted a young peasant girl to the door of the entrance pavilion, who asked me what I wanted. I took a few steps to answer her; but on seeing me more closely, she clasped her hands. “God help us! It’s the young master!” she cried, terrified. “How do you know?” I asked, quite surprised. “Oh! It’s him!” repeated the young girl, without answering me and looking around her. “Jesus! Where did he come in?” I told her I had opened the little door. “And no one saw you?” she added. “No one.” “Come in, then, come in quickly. What a pity, my God! that the old father has gone out. ” I had followed her into a low room that I recognized as the lodgings of the caretaker Antoine. I suddenly remembered that the latter had a little girl at home, still a child when I left, and I turned quickly towards my interlocutor. “Is it possible that you are Mariette!” I cried. “Ah! You haven’t forgotten my name then? Monsieur Henri,” she said, smiling and blushing at the same time. I ran to her, took both her hands, and looked at her, repeating: “It’s Mariette! Mariette, who brought me blessed bread every Sunday … whom I sat on my horse to ride up the avenue… whom my mother taught to read!…” And, quite moved by these memories, I embraced her with as much joy and tenderness as if I had found a young sister. The poor girl began to cry. “Ah! Monsieur Henri is very good to remember all that, she said, what a joy that Monsieur Henri has returned in good health! “So you have not left the castle,” I continued: “Father Antoine is still guardian? ” “Always, Monsieur Henri. ” “And you are pleased with your new master, Monsieur Michel? ” Mariette started. “Don’t utter that word,” she said in a low voice, “you especially… One might suspect… ” “What then?” I asked, suddenly brought back to the memory of what had happened to me while crossing the village. “Nothing, nothing,” said the young girl hastily; “the best thing is to be silent… Especially since someone is here, listen!” Fingal had indeed just barked; and, looking out of the window, we saw Father Antoine crossing the courtyard with a man dressed in wide trousers and a blue carmagnole. “My lord!” said Mariette, frightened, “it’s the municipal officer; He will arrest you if he learns who you are! But he was already informed. I had fortunately provided myself, on leaving Paris, with all the documents which proved my removal from the list of emigrants. I presented them to the municipal agent, who found them in order and complimented me on my happy return, adding that the castle was empty at the moment, and that I could still consider myself at home. “So Mr. Michel is not here?” I asked. “He must arrive… in a few days,” replied Antoine with embarrassment. “But, in the meantime, Citizen Henri will be able to take possession of his old room,” observed the municipal officer; “he will find it exactly as he left it. ” “Is that true?” I cried. “I want to see it then; and if Antoine thinks, in fact, that I can await the return of his new master here?” “Certainly, there is no obstacle,” said the old guardian timidly. “Then I will stay!” I cried. And, without listening to anything further, I rushed towards the staircase, crossed the corridor and arrived at my mother’s apartment which preceded mine. I would be afraid of lengthening this story beyond measure, my friends, if I wanted to tell you all that I felt at that moment and during the hours which followed it. To understand such emotions, one must have gone through exile and find, upon returning, one of those empty houses where memories are regrets. Antoine had returned to the village to retrieve the papers I had had to entrust to the municipal; I had locked myself in, and I spent part of the night wandering through these deserted rooms, where every place, every object spoke to me of my mother! Finally, fatigue won out; I fell asleep. It had been light for a long time when I was awakened by Mariette’s voice , who asked me through the door if I wanted to receive the farmers. I understood that Antoine had warned them and that they had come to congratulate their former master. I found them, in fact, gathered in the waiting room with the old notary, Mr. Leroux. At the sight of me, he held out both arms. “There he is,” he cried; “it’s really him, my friends, God has listened to us!” All the peasants gave a joyful exclamation when I said my name. I ran to Mr. Leroux, whom I embraced, then to all the farmers, whose hands I shook, one after the other. There was a moment of confusion and general tenderness. They all addressed the same questions to me at once. Finally, however, the notary managed to impose silence on them. “By the sangoi! We are in the Tower of Babel,” he said, putting his cane between the peasants and me; “you would be taken for a club of old women; come now, citizen farmers, that’s enough fraternizing! You mustn’t tire the young fellow.” I interrupted him, assuring him that the eagerness of these good people could not tire me and that I was touched to the depths of my soul by their expressions of affection. “Oh! They have no lack of affection, the notary continued cheerfully, and they have given proof of it. When they wanted to sell the estate, they all came to me with their savings, so that it might be bought in your name. “Can it be?” I cried, moved. “Unfortunately, the thing was impossible,” continued Maître Leroux. ” No longer having, as an emigrant, the right to possess, you had lost, even more so, the right to acquire. They then wanted to buy, under their own names, the farms and the castle; but I pointed out to them that their intention would infallibly be suspected, and that they would expose themselves to a thousand persecutions, so they renounced their plan. “And it was then that Citizen Michel presented himself as the purchaser!” I asked. “That is to say, I presented myself for him,” replied the notary. “You, Maître Leroux!” –I, dear Mr. Henri, and as soon as the acquisition was made, took care to publish everywhere that the said citizen Michel was one of the most ardent sans-culottes in Paris, a close friend of the best in the government, and in a position to make anyone who claimed to vex his farmers look like a supporter of Pitt and Coburg. –And the method succeeded for you? –Well enough so that all the people on the estate were protected from house searches, forced taxes, and requisitions. The peasants confirmed the fact with one unanimous voice. “So I hope,” the notary continued with a laugh, “that M. Henri will be satisfied with the state in which he finds the Brisaie. ” “Satisfied for you, my friends,” I replied, a little astonished at Maître Leroux’s lack of tact; “but above all, we must congratulate Citizen Michel… ” “To hell with Citizen Michel!” cried the notary with a gesture of wild gaiety; “there are no more of them! The terrible sans-culotte was a straw man whom we can burn now; the real Michel is all of us, or rather it is you alone, Monsieur Henri, you to whom we have had the good fortune to return without delay and without damage what belongs to him. ” Maître Leroux then told me how he had had the idea of buying back the Brisaie with the farmers’ money, for a supposed patriot whom he had made a scarecrow of, and this explanation made me understand the impression produced by the name of M. Michel on the locals. Those who believed in its existence did not dare to speak of it for fear of compromising themselves, and those who were in on the secret remained silent for fear of betraying themselves. I do not need to tell you what my astonishment was, then what my gratitude and joy were: I could only once again shake the hands of these good people and thank them, less with words than with tears. But, at that very moment, I felt a firm desire arise within me to recognize this benefit by the devotion of my entire life; it was like a challenge of generosity thrown to my soul. I resolved to show myself as generous, as good to all men as some men had just shown themselves to me. It was at first only a sensation, an impulse, but which soon transformed into a considered resolution. We do not take enough account, in education, of the influence of the first events which seriously reveal men to us. Upon our appearance in the world, we all resemble those curious people who instinctively rush toward the entrance taken by the crowd. Life presented itself to me from the side of devotion, I directed my activity toward this door, without knowing at first how far it would lead me. Chapter 21. The Two Cousins. My first idea was to look around me and seek what good I could do for those around me. I was struck, at first glance, by all that they lacked. Much land remained fallow; the roads were poorly maintained; the farm buildings were insufficient, badly placed; there were arid meadows, others drowned under water; everywhere the riches of the soil were useless or poorly exploited. I shared my observations with Master Leroux, who bent his shoulders. “It must be,” he said; “any improvement work carried out by the farmers would only result in raising the price of the next lease.” Our peasants know this and are content to live on the rented land, without worrying about an increase in value which would lead to an increase in rent. Such is the constitution of property among us, that expenses and industry only benefit the owner. The share is thus given to each: he who does everything, has nothing; he who does nothing, has everything! And one is surprised, after this, that our peasants show themselves indifferent to any improvement; that they persevere in their routine; that they cultivate from day to day; as if it were not for them prudence and necessity. I asked the old notary what remedies he saw for the evil, and he spoke to me of advances made to farmers by agricultural funds, of long-term leases, finally of these rentable domains, in use in certain provinces, and by means of which the farmer, having become the owner of surfaces, could only be dismissed after payment of all the improvements made by him. I reflected for a long time on these means, and entirely new ideas awoke in me. I first made, with the farmers of the Brisaie, new conditions which, while assuring them the benefits of every improvement, gave a incentive bonus for intelligence and zeal. I provided them with the necessary advances; I rebuilt the roads; I built granaries for the crops. But, after having thought about the material instruments of exploitation, it remained to take care of the human instruments. It was necessary to distribute the jobs, to regulate the activities, because, at Brisaie as elsewhere, everything was left to chance. I tried to put everyone in their place. One of the farmers had a son who had fought two years in the bands of Maine commanded by Jambe-d’Argent. An enemy of all work, he spent his life in the thickets, given to poaching and often assailed by bad thoughts; I brought him in; I offered him one of the forester’s positions, and the dangerous vagabond became the most vigilant guardian of the estate. Antoine’s daughter, Mariette, was a talker, alert, pleasant, but little disposed to the sedentary work of the house; I encouraged the farmers to entrust her with the produce they sent each day to the nearby market, and the mediocre housewife became a skilled merchant. A poor widow, weakened by illness, languished miserable and useless; I made her a solicitous supervisor for the little children who could not follow their mothers to work in the fields; finally, there was in the village a young orphan to whom the former priest had once given lessons with the aim of making him a priest, and who, seized by a passion for study, refused any other occupation; I charged him with presiding over the peasants’ evenings, with telling them, in person, what the books had taught him, with keeping their feelings and their intelligence alert, with being, finally, for them, a sort of living library and daily teacher who could interest and instruct them. A host of other unemployed skills were thus successively used. I found a clerk for the accounting of the farms, a mechanic for the improvement of the tools, a schoolmaster for the children. These met in winter, in a well-heated room, which I had prepared for them, and which was decorated with models of instruments, engravings, samples of products forming a sort of agricultural museum. In summer, they settled under a tent, at the top of a mound , surrounded by hedges, and at the foot of which flowed a fountain: there, the lessons were given under the sky, among the songs of the finches and the scents of mint and sweetbriar. The carts, returning in the evening from the meadows, passed near the open-air school, and picked up the smallest children who arrived at the distant farms, lying on the flowery grass. Thus, the prosperity of each helped the prosperity of all, and hearts became more confident and more tender in this atmosphere of joy; for only unjust happiness depraves; that which one has deserved by one’s works improves and encourages; it is like a visible manifestation of the equity of God. These successes, combined with studies long pursued, gave me a glimpse of the system of human association that I was to complete later . The poor organization of the established social order was beginning to strike me; I believed that it was my duty to call the attention of men of good will to the transformations already accomplished at Brisaie, and to those that time would bring; I had an Address to French Landowners printed, copies of which I distributed in profusion. I was awaiting the result of this appeal with a certain impatience, when the arrival of my cousin came to tear me away from this preoccupation. Since his return from emigration, the knight had settled in Tours, where his fortune, his name and his habits had soon acquired him one of the first places in the golden youth of the country. Now, those who did not live in the province at that time cannot even suspect what the idle youth of the Empire was like. Recruited from that portion of the nobility which had refused to rally to the national movement, in the bourgeoisie rich enough to buy several replacements one after the other , and in a few privileged families, whom the complacency of a prefect or the corruption of a military surgeon exempted from conscription, it was almost exclusively composed of egoists, the corrupt and cowards whom the great contagion of glory had not been able to carry away, and who, in the midst of this storm of strong ambitions and generous courage, had maintained at all costs their harmful uselessness. Reigning despotically in cities depopulated of men, these elected officials gave themselves over without reserve to the most monstrous excesses, and, while the rest of the nation spent its strength fighting the united Europe, they were seen to use theirs to try out vices and invent orgies. These, moreover, were almost battles. They had been seen, staggering and blinded by drunkenness, firing pistols, aiming at one of their companions, or leaping out of a window and crushing their limbs on the pavement. In Tours, a society formed under the name of the Carib tribe, had undertaken to live wild lives on one of the islands of the Loire. Men and women spent their days there with nothing but the air of the sky, running among the grass, chasing each other in the river, drinking and dancing under the willow groves. Some finally thought, after an orgy and to carry the imitation further, of tying one of the Caribs to a post and surrounding him with fire, encouraging him to repeat his war song. The cries of the patient fortunately attracted some fishermen, who freed him and took him back to his half-dead parents[C]. But, this time, the complaints of the family awakened the authorities; An investigation began , there was talk of arrests, and the knight, who had been one of the most compromised actors in this mad saturnalia, became frightened and fled. He arrived at the Brisaie, where he asked me to hide him. However reluctant I might be, I had to welcome him; but the day after his arrival, a squad of gendarmes arrived accompanied by the imperial prosecutor. When they entered, the knight had turned pale and stood up. One of the magistrates came towards us, asking for the master of the house. I gave my name, he signaled everyone to withdraw, ordered the exits to be guarded, and we remained alone. The examining magistrate sat down at a table, papers in his hand; my cousin, seized, stood behind and hidden in the shadows: I found myself standing alone before the imperial prosecutor. He was a tall, severe, and magisterial man, whose every movement revealed the high opinion he had of his office and of himself. He looked at me gravely and said in a solemn voice: “I have come to fulfill a painful duty, sir, all the more painful because I must exercise it against a man who, by his rank and education, seemed destined to support good order instead of disturbing it. ” I bowed without finding anything to say in favor of the knight. “I have reason to believe, moreover,” added the imperial prosecutor, noticing my silence, “that our visit to the Brisaie was planned. ” “I must confess that I feared it,” I replied. “So you were aware of the guilt of the act committed?” he continued. I replied with embarrassment, but affirmatively. The two magistrates looked at each other. “That is a frankness worthy of the man who wrote the Address to French Landlords,” said the examining magistrate in a mocking tone. ” It is no less out of character than his book. ” “Have you read it?” I asked with the eagerness of a convinced author, who wishes to know the effect produced by his work. “Yes, sir,” said the imperial prosecutor, advancing towards me, “and the proof is that we have come in the name of the law to arrest the author.” The knight could not suppress a cry of astonishment. I looked at the two magistrates, convinced that I had misheard. “You have come to arrest me?” I repeated. “As if I had been warned of having printed a document that could harm the security of the State, continued the investigating judge; a crime provided for by Article 102 of the Penal Code. The blow was so unexpected that I remained silent at first. Finally, having recovered from my initial surprise, I had the accusation repeated to me, and I wanted to know what the Address to French Landlords could have that was dangerous for the security of the State. “You ask?” cried the imperial prosecutor, with a sort of indignation; when you loudly proclaim your horror for war and for conquerors… which is an obvious attack on His Majesty the Emperor and an indirect plea against conscription; when you declare that property is not constituted for the benefit of the greatest number… which is an invitation to change the laws that govern it; when you finally proclaim the necessity of institutions that have neither been voted on by the legislative body, nor promulgated by the conservative senate, nor recommended by imperial decrees. One cannot repress too severely, Sir, declamations which tend to make the French people believe that they are lacking something, and the duty of all magistrates is to combat those whom His Majesty the Emperor has so justly branded with the name of ideologues. I wanted to reply; but like all public accusers who find that there is nothing more to say when they have finished speaking, he interrupted me by declaring that the time to plead the case had not come. The examining magistrate added that I myself had recognized the existence of the offense by admitting that I feared their visit. I then had to explain how I had believed it to be provoked by the presence of the knight. The eyes of the two magistrates turned towards the latter. “Ah! I understand,” said the imperial prosecutor; The warrant was, in fact, about to be signed when Monsieur left Tours. Fortunately for him, young Destouches was out of danger and his parents had withdrawn their complaint. The knight made a gesture of joy. “The public prosecutor could nevertheless pursue the matter,” continued the magistrate; “but it would have meant compromising esteemed names and afflicting honorably placed families. We believed it wiser to stifle all debate and remove the person in question. ” “Remove me,” repeated the anxious knight, “how so, Monsieur?” “By leaving the country without delay,” continued the imperial prosecutor; “our indulgence comes at this price.” The knight declared that he would leave the same day and left hurriedly. After long searches of the castle and the seizure of my papers, I was made to get into a closed carriage with two corporals, around which the gendarmes lined up. As I left the avenue of the castle, I saw the knight leaning out of the window of his traveling carriage, waving farewell. He was taking the road to Paris free and joyful, while I was being taken prisoner to Tours. Here Françoise, who had already uttered several exclamations, could not contain herself. “Is it really possible,” she cried, “and it was judges who did this?
” “Why not?” said Marc. “Judges are not responsible for being just, they are responsible for applying the laws. You are in the street because you cannot pay rent; that worries the bourgeoisie: in prison! You ask for something to buy bread because you are short of it, that annoys those who have dined: in prison! The judge does not say that the law is good; but he says that it is the law. ” “Then it must be changed!” the grisette resumed briskly. What harm would there be in everyone being happy, like at La Brisaie? Oh! If only I could have lived there! You would have given me the children to look after, wouldn’t you, Monsieur Michel? Poor darlings! How I would have loved them, caressed them, pampered them; just seeing a child, look, brings tears of joy to my eyes! And to think that mine… I can’t… She stopped to wipe her eyes. “It’s certain that if we had to choose,” continued the Ferret, “it wouldn’t be not to run like a poodle through the streets of Paris and sleep in nests in a lodging house. For my part, I would prefer to sleep in the hay and lead a good pair of oxen. Two strong animals, like that, which obey you and do good work under your hand, that must give pleasure. “I prefer sheep,” Brousmiche continued; “I would have been so happy to have some to look after. We are in the open air and we live all alone with our dog… which means that no one laughs at you. ” “Well! that’s what M. Michel wanted,” Françoise continued; “to put everyone in their place: and to think that it was a crime for him! I hope at least that you didn’t stay long in prison? ” “Only six months. ” “Six months! ” “Which benefited me more than all the years spent at the Brisaie. ” “How so?” –Because it was for me the occasion of unknown revelations and the starting point of a new life. Chapter 22. Sketches of the People. Once the first surprise and the first indignation had passed, my captivity seemed easy to bear. The orders, at first severe, were soon softened; money did the rest and bought me all the comfort and freedom that a prison can contain. I was not long in recognizing, moreover, that chance had offered me a new opportunity for study. After having lived among men subjected to the yoke of society, I was going to meet those who had broken it. I passed from a still healthy environment into that of the desperate. Here I was going to see all the diseases of misused intelligence, all the ulcers dug in the heart by unemployed passions, all the moral infirmities created by ignorance or poverty. A dismal examination which was at once an affliction and an encouragement to me! For, if each moment revealed to me a new wound, each reflection showed me its origin, and, like the attentive doctor, I found even beneath this human rot, the great principles of an organization not vicious, but deviated. Going down to the courtyard during the hours of walking, I questioned these unfortunates about their past; I sought to find, in their stories, the starting point of each of the vices which had later lost them; I finally strove to draw up, for each of them, that genealogical tree of the capital sins which, according to a Spanish poet, becomes, in hell, the title of nobility of each damned. This study opened a thousand new perspectives to me. The glimmers which had already crossed my mind multiplied and spread; I began to understand that God had not destined me for the execution of a partial improvement, accomplished for the benefit of a few, but for a general mission for the benefit of all. From that moment I resolved to pursue, in all forms and by all means, this investigation of humanity which was to reveal to me its true law. It was a decision taken slowly, but sovereign. Once the doubts were removed, this idea of regeneration became, so to speak, the absolute queen of my entire life; I made for it a phalanx of all that was in me of forces, feelings, desires, and when the phalanx had formed its ranks, I cried: Come on! and I left, like Alexander, for the conquest of the world. My release happily seconded my resolution. After many interrogations, delays, hesitations, it was found that a preventive detention of six months was sufficient for my punishment and the prison door was opened to me. The Address to French Landowners remained only suppressed. But I now attached little value to it. For a year, my ideas had expanded, I already glimpsed the broad outlines of a complete and new plan; All that remained was for me to complete the studies I had begun. Only, for that, I had to know the people of the cities, as I knew those of the countryside, and live among them on a footing of trust and equality. My mind was immediately made up. I abandoned the administration of the Brisaie to Master Leroux; I took steps so that the income could be accumulated for five years, without it being possible for me to take anything away and I left on foot for Paris, with a few hundred francs and a passport granted to Joseph Michel, turner. The journey of the worker when he is young and strong, when he leaves no family behind him, and when he has enough to meet the needs of the road, offers a continuity of charming impressions. While the rich man passes by, carried away in his sleeping bag and knowing the world he crosses only through his complaints to the postmasters or his debates with the postilions, the worker, himself, enjoys everything he sees, mixes with everything he meets. He drinks from the fountains along the road, picks blackberries along the hedges, rests with the harvesters under the bundles of sheaves. Everything is brother and friend to him: he gives a good day to the peasant woman who passes by; he speaks to the young shepherd who brings the flocks back from the distant wasteland; he accepts a place near the carter who is returning to his village and learns what makes the parish sad or happy . Thus, everything becomes for him pleasure and instruction. Everywhere, he leaves something of his life and takes something from the lives of others; it is a continual exchange of emotions, of glances, of words. When the rich traveler passes, it is only a team that wears the pavement; but when the worker walks, it is a man who crosses the world of men. I experienced this sensation so vividly that the journey was for me a source of perpetual enchantment. Taking advantage of the right that my jacket and my dusty gaiters gave me, I had left the selfish reserve of the cultivated world for the joyful familiarity of the people. I stopped near the threshold to ask for directions and I struck up a conversation with all the passers-by, free to prolong or interrupt it as I pleased. One morning, leaving Nemours, I met a workman who was smoking at the door of a tavern, and who called out to me from the threshold: “Well! coterie[D], don’t we drink the morning shot to kill the worm?” I excused myself by replying that I didn’t want to stop, for fear of not being able to reach Fontainebleau before the heat. “So you’re going to Paris?” he asked me. “Then we’ll do the journey together , my son, which will only be half the journey for each of us… Only, we must prove that we’re French by drinking a glass of schnick together. ” The jovial air of my companion pleased me, I went into the tavern with him; but, after the first glass offered by me, it was necessary to accept a second, then he proposed to begin again. I declared that I wanted to leave without further delay; and when he saw me leave, he finally decided to follow me. “You seem to me like a good boy, but a little prudish about the little glass,” he said to me, when he had joined me, “that is not the temperament of Robert Brigoire, called Pump-for-Death. He has beaten so much iron that he is left afflicted with a thirst for English….. Speaking of English, what do they call you? I told him my name and my profession. “Well! I took you for a companion of the trowel,” he continued; “but no matter, I want to teach you not to sulk at the blow of the hook, and, to begin with, you will accept a politeness at the first cork. I still have twelve pounds seventeen sous that must be scraped together.” I tried to make him understand that it would be wiser to reserve them for the case where he should not find work when he arrived in Paris. “Ah! Yes, indeed,” interrupted Robert, “if we thought about tomorrow, there would never be any pleasure. For us companions, you see, tomorrow is misery, illness, and all the trembling; today, it’s a small glass and a bawdy song. So go for today, and to hell with the next day! Here’s a tavern; I offer the consolation shot, old man, forward, march.” I declared to Pompe-à-mort that his habits were not mine, and that I positively refused; so he went in alone, while I continued on my way, but he soon joined me and began to talk again . Robert lacked neither intelligence nor good feelings; unfortunately, drunken habits threatened to extinguish everything. I tried to warn him gently, but he himself was aware of the fate he was preparing for himself without having the strength to stop. “It’s too late, you see, Michel,” he said to me with a certain sadness: “a declared drunkard can no more stop himself from drinking than a sponge can from taking on water. At first, I had little taste for the thing; brandy burned my throat, and I only drank it out of human respect, so as not to be called a girl; but little by little, I got used to it. After the day, one doesn’t know what to do: we don’t have, like the bourgeois, salons where one can talk while warming oneself; At home, it’s sad and cold; the women have to mend clothes, soap; we have to speak quietly because of the sleeping children; so, to have a little freedom and comfort, we go down to the wine merchant’s. On Sundays, it’s even worse: educated people can read the newspaper, make visits in a cab, sing songs with guitar accompaniment; we still only have the cabaret. –But on Mondays at least you could go back to work. –It depends; when there are many workers missing, the masters often send you away, under the pretext that there is no profit in lighting the forges, so that your good will is of no use to you, and people say to themselves: Since they don’t want us to work when others are having fun, let’s go and have fun with them, and that’s how you become a complete reveller. Upon arriving in Paris, Robert offered to take me to the lodgings he had lived in before his journey. “It’s not a furnished lodging,” he told me; “but I prefer to go there, because the bourgeois knows me and gives me credit; there is a tavern below where they dip soup for two sous, and where they sell wine from the vineyard for seven; unless you are used to living on Madeira and small feet, it should fit you like a knitted glove.” I accepted the blacksmith’s offer, who took me to Rue des Arcis, to a half-timbered house with only two floors. The ground floor was occupied by the tavern owner, the main tenant, who then sublet it on a small scale. Father la Gloriette was a small , pot-bellied, ruddy, laughing man who addressed everyone informally. At first glance, I recognized him as one of those egotists who have adopted bonhomie as a badge. He welcomed us with loud exclamations of joy, asked us twenty questions to which he did not wait for answers, and filled two small glasses which he offered us. Robert announced to him, pointing to me, that he was bringing him a new tenant. “As it happens,” cried the fat man; “I happen to have two cots available in the little study on the second floor; you will be there with Father Barrier. ” “The watchmaker? ” “Yes, a rather bad tenant, for he consumes nothing, but the king of roommates, seeing as he can hardly be heard breathing. ” “Is he always busy with inventions? ” “He is looking for one which, according to him, will revolutionize everything, but you know, he is always afraid that someone will steal his ideas, and he plays the secret; Besides, you only have to go up and talk to him about it . I persuaded Robert to show me the way, and we arrived at a low and dark room, whose only furniture consisted of three cradle beds and three stools. Near the window a thin, bald and already old man was filing on a small workbench covered with fragments of copper, pieces of iron and tools. At the sight of us, he stopped abruptly, threw the piece he was working on into the drawer of the workbench and closed it quickly. “Well! do you take us for burglars (room robbers), good man Barrier?” asked Robert. “Well, it’s you, Pompe-à-mort,” said the watchmaker, “so you’re here return? “With a roommate whom I’m bringing you. ” “Ah! You’re going to stay here,” Barrier continued, his gaze fixed on me anxiously: “Are you a journeyman then? ” “So! Papa Barrier,” Robert continued; “look at this boy’s hands and tell me if this is the leather of an iron beater? ” “Is this gentleman a mechanic?” the watchmaker asked anxiously. “True,” said Pump-to-Death, laughing: “a mechanic in chair sticks, a builder of sculpins, and an engineer in towel rolls. If you ‘re kind, he’ll turn you a case to better hide your inventions. ” The old workman’s brow furrowed. “Hide them better,” he repeated; “ah! yes, if I had done that, others would not have become rich, by stripping me of what was my property. Alone, I searched for everything, discovered everything, and the master who made me work profited from it; It is he who is known, it is he who is praised; it is he who bears the cross that I have won. “And have you not been able to claim your right?” I asked. “What right?” the watchmaker continued bitterly. “Was I not in the manufacturer’s pay ? Had he not provided the material? The discovery was his since it came from his workshops, for the workman’s brain is part of the tools; it is a rented crucible; everything that comes out of it belongs to the master. Our job is to invent, and it is up to him to buy the patent for our invention. It is not capital that is an instrument for intelligence, but intelligence that is an instrument for capital. The day I wanted to claim a share in the profits that the master owed me, he chased me away and the lawyers told me that it was the law. ” “Well, another time you will make your conditions,” said Robert; you are not that close to an invention and you can find another . “To invent you need time, space, tools, money,” said the watchmaker, “and you see where I am? ” “It is certain that it cannot be compared to the Tuileries,” continued Pompe-à-mort, looking around him carelessly; “but why did you leave the large front room?” Barrier did not have time to reply; the door had just opened noisily, and a grisette came in singing: “Hey! it’s the neighbor Farandole,” said Robert. “Well! Pompe-à-mort,” cried the young girl, “how come you are here, you naughty fellow? ” “I am here because I am here, old lady,” continued Robert gaily, putting one of his arms around her and giving her a big kiss on each cheek. “Well, as it happens,” said Farandole, who had let her do it, ” I’m giving a party today. ” “A party? ” “With cake and punch! No less. ” “Thunder! That’s a bit of good manners for the neighborhood! So it’s the brigadier who’s entertaining? ” “Ah! Yes, the brigadier: I don’t know him anymore! ” “Who are you with now? ” “With me all alone! That’s a change. But, tell me, is this boy one of your friends?” She was referring to me. Robert replied that I was his new roommate. “Then he must come with you,” continued Farandole, “we’ll see if he’s a joker; and you too, Father Barrier, I’ll wait for you; the whole house will be there first; even Papa Jerome, who promised to come when the kids were in bed. So, it’s settled, children.” At seven o’clock the party begins, a decent dress code is required, we will be received in clogs… At these words the grisette took Robert’s two hands, danced around the room two or three times, and left to the tune of the Farandole, a favorite round dance to which she owed her name. Robert and I arrived at the grisette’s house at the appointed time. Some of the guests were already there: they were workers belonging to the factories of the Faubourg Saint-Marceau, but whose attire evidently proved the habit of doing their fifth shift in the street[F], and two young men in caps, living off these equivocal industries that prepare for vice through idleness. Father Barrier also soon arrived with Gloriette, who brought punch in a salad bowl. They sat around the table; Farandole filled the glasses, and the conversation began to liven up. Robert especially, who kept returning to the refreshments, soon became exceedingly cheerful. “Come on, Pompe-à-mort, a little restraint,” said the grisette, wanting to stop her libations; “we must keep Papa Jérôme’s share.” “So much the worse for those who are absent!” cried Robert, filling his glass . “Why doesn’t that old rose-queen of Salency come? I bet he’s breastfeeding one of his brats. ” “Shut up, you scoundrel, here he is!” A little man, with a gentle face and timid manners, had just half-opened the door, his woolen cap in his hand. “Excuse me, everyone,” he said, entering cautiously. ” Gentlemen and ladies, I have the honor… Has anything happened to you since this morning, Miss Farandole? Good morning, Monsieur Robert, how is yours? ” “Sit down, old papa,” he said, pulling out a chair for the newcomer. “Why are you so late?” “It’s not my fault,” replied Jerome, sitting down some distance from the table. “By God, I did my best; but I had to finish a large batch of buttons that I have to deliver tomorrow. ” “So business is going well at this hour, papa? ” “You’re very kind, Monsieur Robert, it’s not bad, thank God! But it was time, for the off-season had consumed all that could be put into the piggy bank.” “Yes,” Barrier observed, “in good times you fill it up, cutting out all pleasures, and in bad times you empty it out, giving yourself only a part of what’s necessary!… You go on like that for about forty years, and then, if you’re on good terms with your commissary, you get a place at the hospital. ” “You do what you can, my dear Mr. Barrier; you do what you can,” replied Jerome gently. “Certainly, it’s sad to go to the hospital, but then the children are brought up! ” “Good father, go!” said Farandole, touched, in spite of herself, in her woman’s heart. And she filled a glass which she offered to the buttonmaker. He seemed to hesitate to accept it. “Don’t you like punch?” asked Robert. “That is to say, perhaps I do,” said Jerome, embarrassed and smiling; ” but, you understand… that a father of a family… must avoid the expense…; so I think I’ve never drunk any. “That’s right!” resumed one of the young men in caps. “Filtered water and potatoes, that’s the diet of virtue! It’s funny, though, that three-quarters of the world are condemned to live in penance on this filthy land, without ever tasting what it gives that’s good. ” “That’s what doesn’t suit me,” added his companion. “To work twelve hours for only a bale of hay, that might suit a cabriolet horse, but not a man. ” “And that’s why you put him up in the rue de Saint-Lâche?” asked Robert. “You have to be careful, my boy; that district is very near the Palais-de-Justice.” The young man shrugged. “Known!” he said. but when something bad happens!… a few months spent in the shade have never done any harm to one’s health: the government will give us board and lodging for nothing, while you die of hunger… and what’s more, we’ll come out of there with a sledgehammer!… “It’s still true!” said Barrier thoughtfully. “Ah well! You shouldn’t say things like that!” cried one of the workers; “it brings up ideas… that annoy you. ” “And it annoys Jérôme,” added Robert. “Yes, yes,” interrupted Farandole, who had just emptied the salad bowl into the glasses; “don’t mechanize honest people in front of Papa Jérôme…..; he might take it personally, and he’s already got enough crosses.” Jérôme raised his head. The punch had brought a slight blush to his face. his cheeks dull, and his eye had gained a little more assurance. “Excuse me, Miss Farandole,” he said with a certain vivacity: ” I appreciate the intention of what you say; but I would not want the company to believe that I have anything to complain about, nor that I am not happy in my household… ” “Oh! Well, we know that Mother Jérôme is the queen of good women,” interrupted the grisette. “Yes, I think I can allow myself to say that we have nothing to reproach her for,” continued the buttonmaker, whose accent betrayed an inner tenderness; “for the twelve years that we have lived in the neighborhood, she is known… Always at work, and never in a bad mood, at that!… The children are still learning what it is to be beaten. ” “So they are nice,” said Farandole; “they would not meet me without saying hello.” “And never a noise on the stairs,” added the Gloriette. “And they go to school every day,” continued the watchmaker. “Every day, Monsieur Barrier,” resumed the workman, whose praise brought tears to his eyes; “the eldest already knows how to read, write, and do ciphers, and the two little ones help their mother sew. They are true angels of God!… So when they are around me, you see, and I hear the good woman fiddling around the house and humming, I ask nothing but to continue to live as happily. ” “Well! I understand that!” cried Farandole; “yes, seeing kids who are thriving, who laugh, who caress you; that must season your spinach nicely. If butter is too expensive, well, we have their happiness… and we eat our bread with it. ” “And then,” resumed Jerome, emboldened by this approval, ” good luck may come along .” Two years ago, a bourgeois was on the point of giving me the advance I needed to start manufacturing on my own account: he had promised me five hundred francs, unfortunately he made a loss… “And you got nothing?” Barrier finished ironically. “No, but another opportunity may present itself; one must always hope, Monsieur Barrier; it doesn’t hurt anyone, and it does you good; while we wear ourselves out envying those who are better placed and that often gives rise to bad temptations. I know very well that there are some who receive a poor share in the world, but that is a reason not to make it worse by one’s lack of reason: when you have been put in water up to your neck, you mustn’t push your head in even further out of bad humor, or people will think it is your fault if you drown… I don’t say that, at least, to offend the company.” “We know that well, Father Jerome, go on,” said Farandole, who had become serious. “Then she will excuse me for having ventured my little note too,” continued the button-maker, who had risen with a smile, “and she will allow me to greet her, seeing that the children will not have wanted to go to sleep without saying goodnight to me… it’s a habit… thanking you, Miss Farandole, and the company, to the advantage!” He bowed several times with his cap and left. What he had just said had evidently impressed the audience. As
he spoke, their revolted cynicism had given way to I know not what vague respect for this simple honesty and this happy resignation. Robert, who had sent for brandy, drank shot after shot, as if he wanted to get dizzy more quickly and not hear; The two young men in caps affected an embarrassed irony, Barrier and the women had assumed a serious air. There was a moment of silence after the worker left. “Is this Father Jerome funny,” Farandole finally exclaimed suddenly, escaping the impression she had received with a burst of laughter; “what he told us was like a sermon, except that a sermon is boring. ” “Bah!” added one of the workers, “he’s right and so are we… everyone does as they can. ” “Well said, my little wimp,” the grisette continued, kissing her; ” everyone does as they can… while appearing to do as they please.” Let us go then, my little ones… and to end the evening well, I propose a rigodon. “Here? ” “No, at the Mouffetard ball; it’s the opening tonight, who wants to be my partner? ” “Present!” said Robert, who stood up unsteadily. “Pompe-à-mort!… thank you!” objected Farandole; “to dance you have to stand. ” “Be calm,” stammered the blacksmith, “it’s sitting that has made me dizzy like this: when I’ve had some air, you’ll see me firmer than the Pont-Neuf. Your arm, I tell you; I won’t insult you.” The grisette made up her mind after some hesitation and everyone left together, except Barrier and I, who returned to our room. The next day, I took half of the thousand francs I had brought with me and sent it to Jerome, with an anonymous note, stating that this money was given to him so that he could manufacture on his own account! The good man almost went mad with joy. He immediately set about buying everything he needed and rented another apartment in the rue du Renard. I took his room where I set up with what was necessary for my profession as a turner. I had some difficulty at first in obtaining work. I had to face many refusals, accept harsh conditions, endure late payments and even deductions, and initiate myself in the run into the practical difficulties of the life of the people, of which I still knew only the great miseries. Chapter 23. An encounter. You do not expect from me, no doubt, the detailed account of these years of trials; I have told you enough to be able to leap over them and arrive at the adventure which forced me to hasten my change of position. I was returning one morning from Auteuil, where I had brought back some orders, when, on arriving at the end of one of the avenues, I saw an open carriage being quickly carried away by horses without a driver, and in which a single woman was uttering piercing cries . The team was coming towards me, following the middle of the road. By an instinctive movement, I dropped the measuring rule which I was holding in my hand, and, at the moment when the carriage arrived near me, I sprang to the head of the horses. They dragged me for a while, then slowed down. I was able to seize one of the reins, and, pulling it sharply, I forced the team to move back. The wheels struck the wall of a park which bordered the road, and the carriage stopped. As I was trying to calm the horses by stroking them with my hand and voice, I was joined by the coachman, who had been thrown from his seat without receiving any injury. He soon took control of the team, turned towards his mistress, whose cries had ceased, and we only then realized that she had fainted. I helped him free her from her hat and the fur-lined blanket that enveloped her. The fresh air revived her; she opened her eyes again, but only to fall into a nervous crisis that frightened us. There was no habitation around us nor any means of assistance. “Quickly get back on the seat,” I said to the coachman, “and go to Passy, they will direct you to a doctor.” He approved of the expedient, took the reins again, and left. I remained standing in the same place until he had turned the aisle: then I bent down to take my measuring rule, and my gaze fell upon something brilliant; I put out my hand, it was a bracelet with diamond clasps! I ran at once in the direction taken by the carriage, but it had disappeared. I continued to Passy, where all my information was useless. A carriage had indeed been seen passing a short time before, but it had not stopped. I found myself in a great embarrassment. The bracelet must have been of considerable value, and, at all costs, I wanted to return it. But how could I find the person who had lost it? Looking at it more attentively, I noticed, by chance, a small enameled shield which occupied the center of the clasp: I thought that in consulting the principal jewelers, they could recognize the coat of arms and help me out of this difficulty. I went, therefore, to the Palais-Royal; I entered one of the richest shops and presented the bracelet, asking for the desired information. The clerk seemed amazed at the beauty of the setting. He called the jeweler, who declared, at first glance, that it was a bracelet of a thousand crowns. I could not suppress an exclamation of astonishment. “And do you know the arms engraved on the clasp?” I asked. The jeweler replied negatively. “Then I will go elsewhere,” I continued, holding out my hand to ask for the bracelet again. The merchant looked at me and wanted to know how I was the owner of such a jewel. Urged to continue my search, I quickly replied that I had found it, and as, at the end of my patience, I refused to answer further, he slipped the bracelet into one of his watches, locked it and declared that he would only return it to its rightful owner. Exasperated, I wanted to take it back by force; the result was an argument after which I was arrested and taken to the district commissioner. It was necessary to tell him everything that had happened in the Avenue d’Auteuil. Meanwhile, a new jeweler had recognized the coat of arms; it was that of a general who had become a dignitary of the Empire. They wanted to verify the accuracy of my story, and I was obliged to let myself be taken to the hotel where he lived. As we arrived at the hotel, the coachman who was in the courtyard recognized me and approached. A few words were enough to justify myself; The commissioner excused himself by pleading the necessity of distrust and I was about to withdraw, after having asked him to put the bracelet back on himself , when the general’s wife, informed that I was there, sent for me. Despite my reluctance, I had to give in, and, after passing through several richly decorated salons, I arrived at a boudoir where she was waiting for me. I had glimpsed her so quickly in the morning that it would have been impossible for me to recognize her. Without being beautiful, she had, in her whole person, something sweet and caressing, which attracted you at first glance. She rose quickly at my entrance, ran to me and took my hands with an expansive gratitude which surprised me. “Ah! come,” she said, “I need to see you and thank you.” I wanted to protest against the importance she gave to a service that any other could have rendered her, but she interrupted me, made me sit down near her and began to ask me questions about my name, my condition, my position. I answered with obvious annoyance. She doubtless thought that I feared offers of money which would have hurt my pride, for she hastened to say: “Pardon, Monsieur Michel, if I question you like this; but the only reward I can offer you is my friendship… and one must know one’s friends well!” I replied that she was giving me too much honor. “Don’t say that,” she continued, with sincere sensitivity; “if the general had been in Paris, he would have succeeded better in thanking you: a man makes offers of service to another man without humiliating him: but I am alone and I cannot… I dare offer you only my gratitude… do not refuse it, sir.” She held out her hand to me, I took it and kissed it with emotion. “Madame rewards me beyond what I deserve,” I replied; “and from now on it is I who will be indebted to her.” She looked at me, cast a quick glance at my costume, and made a gesture of astonishment. I understood that I had forgotten my role as a workman, and rising abruptly: “I do hope, moreover, that if Madame needs to employ a turner, she will remember me,” I added, bowing with my foot. “Your address?” continued the young woman, whose gaze continued to observe me. I handed her one of the printed cards that I always carried with me. “You will come back to see me,” she said, in a tone that expressed much less order than prayer. I promised, asking at what time one could speak to Madame la Baronne. “You, at any time,” she replied; “only do not call me by my title, you could be confused with everyone else, but by my baptismal name. When you come, ask for Madame Nancy; it is the password for my friends. ” I thanked her and took leave of her; but just as I was about to leave, a maid announced several names, among which was that of the Chevalier de Rieul. The latter appeared in fact at the entrance to the boudoir, giving his arm to a lady in full finery and followed by two other groups. He seemed at first struck only to find a man wearing my costume in such a place; but this first surprise was followed by a second, more marked one. He stopped short, looked at me fixedly and uttered a cry: he had recognized me! I made a move towards the door to escape; He quickly left the arm of the lady he was leading, seized me by the hand, and led me back to the boudoir window, as if he wanted to make sure he was not mistaken. “God damn me! It’s definitely him,” he cried. “What! You know Monsieur Michel?” the general’s wife asked quickly . “Michel,” repeated the chevalier; “so he also changed his name when he changed his costume?” Madame Nancy seemed stupefied. “What are you talking about a change of costume?” she continued. “Is the gentleman disguised? ” “And so cleverly,” continued de Rieul, “that I had difficulty recognizing him. I never suspected such talent in this dear duke… ” “What,” cried the lady in her full dress, “is the gentleman… ” “My cousin, Madame la Comtesse.” Everyone cried out in surprise; as for me, I was still looking at the door, which I was trying to reach; but the knight held me back. “Oh! you won’t escape like that, my good man,” he said, laughing. ” Close the door, colonel; and you, ladies, allow me to introduce a relative, an excellent gentleman, upon my word, a philanthropist of the first rank and one of the richest landowners in Touraine.” They bowed and I was obliged to return the salute, while the general’s wife, who had at first remained speechless with surprise, related what had happened that morning and how I happened to be there. “But why this costume?” asked the lady led by de Rieul. “How can you not guess, my dear?” cried the little man in short trousers who had been called colonel and whom I then recognized as one of our émigrés from the army of Condé; “it’s a war outfit: with a workman’s costume one can enter anywhere without disturbing the jealous. ” “The jealous,” resumed the lady; So you think that when Monsieur met Nancy this morning… –He had just, like Jupiter, overtaken some unfortunate Amphitryon!… The women smiled, and I noticed that glances were fixed on me with a curiosity that had nothing malicious about it; the explanation supposed by the émigré colonel had evidently given my disguise something gallant that raised its vulgarity. I did not, however, believe I should accept the benefits of such an error. I declared that my costume was that of the profession I had adopted, and, as the old gentleman seemed to doubt, I briefly explained the reasons for this change, bringing as proof the card given to the general’s wife and which she still held. At this revelation, kindness suddenly gave way to mocking astonishment: exclamations arose from all sides. The lady, who had already spoken, and whom Madame Nancy called her sister, exclaimed that it was impossible; the colonel repeated that, even in England, he had never heard of such eccentricity; the knight alone declared himself convinced and recounted my attempts at the Brisaie, to prove that I was capable of anything. From the looks that were then fixed on me, I understood that people thought I was mad. Any attempt at justification would have been useless: I hastened to bow and take my leave; but Madame Nancy came forward briskly. “I could only offer my gratitude to Monsieur Michel,” she said with a graceful emotion; ” will Monsieur Henri de la Brisaie allow me to add my expressions of sympathy and admiration? ” “Ah! Heaven is serving you as you wish, Nancy,” cried her sister ironically; “you who have learned to read in the Social Contract and who have been trained to respect the friends of the human race, you have found your hero. ” “It is true,” said the young woman, in a penetrating tone; What Monsieur has just said, what he has done above all, excites in me a respect, a tenderness that I would like in vain to hide: now that I know the noble employment of his days, I fear diverting a few moments of it to my own profit… and I hardly dare repeat my request of a moment ago… “And I, I ask Madame la Baronne for permission to remind me of her,” I replied, kissing the hand she offered me. Then, greeting everyone, I left, determined to return. As I told you, I was approaching the end fixed by myself for my kind of practical investigation; the encounter I had just had decided me to hasten my transformation. I had worn the livery of the people long enough, and I had mixed enough with their pleasures, their miseries, their vices to learn what I had wanted to know; I laid aside my work jacket and returned to the ranks of the privileged whom I was also to study. But before renouncing the condition I had just passed through, I wanted to see to the fate of those I had known. Father Jerome was prospering, thanks to his good conduct and his activity; I increased this prosperity by advances which allowed him to expand his manufacturing: Barrier, old, sick and without resources, continued to pursue his inventions amidst the tortures of impotence and poverty; I assured him a place at the establishment of the Petits-Ménages, by providing him with everything which could help his research; as for Farandole and Robert, fallen to the last limits of degradation, I could only constitute for them a small inalienable income which would defend their last days against hunger. Thus leaving my friends of the people, I entered the world of the rich and the powerful. I met at Madame Nancy’s, besides her sister and the émigré colonel, her brother-in-law, a large part of the old nobility and the new. The end of the Empire was approaching, the imminent fall of which far-sighted men could already suspect; the intrigues of the royalists had begun again, and, in order to better conceal them, they took care to show themselves in the salons frequented by the officers and officials most devoted to the Emperor. I spent almost all my evenings at Madame Nancy’s, whose expansive friendship had finally become necessary to me: it was near her that I found courage in my days of despondency, and sympathy in my days of hope. Always ready to share your enthusiasms, guessing your sadness without speaking to you, and knowing how to restore balance to your troubled feelings, she became, after a while, the housekeeper of your soul, and kept everything in order, without movement and without noise. This marvelous faculty, which made her the ideal woman for me, had unfortunately found no use either with her sister, who had always envied and hated her, or with the general, accustomed to the harsh existence of the camps. I was the first to notice it and to enjoy it. It was a completely new sensation for Madame Nancy to see herself useful to someone’s happiness; she experienced a joy that was part of gratitude . Several months passed for both of us in an enchantment that has remained the sweetest memory of my life. The difference in age was not felt between us, for age is almost as much in tastes as in the sum of years. A stranger until then to all affection individual, I entered into these new feelings with the youth of the heart, while Madame Nancy, aged by early sufferings, brought to them all the energy that maturity gives to passions in women. We loved each other, however, without having said it, almost without knowing it, and this voluntary ignorance removed all anguish from our minds . The fall of the Empire and the return of the general came to disturb this innocent intimacy; but it was for a short time. The landing of the Emperor at Cannes recalled him to the colors, and Madame Nancy went to live in her villa at Auteuil where I continued to see her every day. The colonel had followed the Bourbons to Ghent, while the countess his wife had remained in Paris with the Chevalier de Rieul. Party relations covered other more intimate ones, but the skill of the two lovers saved them from scandal; for in this frivolous world, where everything stops at appearances, experienced corruption is more certain than honor. The Countess, moreover, masked her indulgence for herself under her severity for others. My assiduity with her sister aroused her criticism, and, consequently, the malicious suppositions of her friends. I was informed of this without being able to decide to interrupt the relations which had become the serious occupation of my life. However, these relations had insensibly lost their peaceful charm. The indulgent affection of the first months had been succeeded by a jealous, anxious, quarrelsome ardor. Although we had become more indispensable to each other, we often separated unhappy and at odds. One of these quarrels was so lively as to leave me, the next day, with a resentment which decided me not to return that day to the general’s villa. I maintained my resolution quite well during the first hours; but, little by little, my courage weakened, hesitations began; I thought of the wrongs I could do, of Madame Nancy’s anxiety when she did not see me, and, while discussing what I should do, I took the road to Auteuil. Chapter 24. Outcome. I arrived at the villa later than usual, and I met the Countess at the gate of the park with the Chevalier. The latter informed me that he had come to take leave of the General’s wife. “He is leaving for the West,” added the Countess, giving these words an intention that made me understand at once what was at issue. “Will you come with me?” resumed de Rieul lightly; ” there we will find ourselves in familiar territory. ” “Indeed,” I replied, “the newspapers have informed me that Messrs. de Lescot and d’Arvière have just placed themselves at the head of the insurgent bands.” “Well! We shall see them at work,” continued de Rieul, who evidently did not wish to conceal the purpose of his journey; “for a philosopher like you, it must be a study to be made. ” “And you may add that it is a duty for every gentleman,” said the Countess intentionally. I observed, smiling, that I had deviated too far to dare to still claim that title. “Admit rather that you do not wish to leave Paris,” replied the Chevalier. “Monsieur would not be permitted to do so,” added the Countess with a sort of bitterness. “Who would oppose it?” I asked. She stopped to look at me, then cried out with a forced laugh. “He asks for it! But do you think we are blind and deaf? What would become of my sister if you were no longer here?” I blushed involuntarily. “I think, indeed,” I continued, “that Madame Nancy would not view with indifference the departure of one of her most devoted friends… but I also know that I am not necessary enough to her for her to try to retain me, if my duty called me elsewhere. ” “You think so? ” “I am sure of it, Madame. ” “Then you will allow me to acquire the same conviction. ” “If you find the means… ” “I have found him,” said the Countess quickly, who had just seen on the steps of her sister with some visitors whom she was escorting. “How so?” I asked, astonished. “Let me do it and just please don’t contradict me.” I didn’t have time to ask any questions; Madame Nancy had just seen us and was running to meet us. After kissing her sister, she held out her hand, gently reproaching me for arriving so late. “Ah! don’t scold him! For he almost didn’t come,” said the Countess. “Why not?” asked her sister. “He had something to confide in you that he was dreading. ” “What confidence?” “You will know first that the knight is leaving tomorrow for the Vendée. ” “But… M. Henri?… ” “Well! M. Henri has decided to go with him. ” I wanted to protest; the Countess interrupted me. “Oh! You mustn’t deny it,” she continued quickly; He wanted to leave at first without seeing you again, but I made him understand that you were not the woman to detain him when his duty called him elsewhere. So I persuaded him to say goodbye to you. Madame Nancy grew pale. Our quarrel the day before had left her in a state of confusion that the isolation of the night and the anticipation of the day had further exalted. The nervous shock that followed had prepared her for painful emotions; so this abruptly announced departure seemed to her a rupture. Struck to the heart, she looked at me, gave a weak cry and sought support with my hand. I rushed to support her; but, feeling my arm brush against her, the remaining control she had over herself seemed to abandon her, and, forgetting everything around her, she let her head fall on my shoulder, bursting into tears and crying through her sobs: “Don’t go!… don’t go!…” All those present remained embarrassed, and the Countess drew back in stupefaction. She had hoped that her ordeal would cause her sister some embarrassment; but, ignorant of what had happened the day before, she had not been able to foresee the kind of explosion that had just taken place. As for me, torn between confusion, joy, and tenderness, I could only repeat broken protestations, begging Madame Nancy to recover; but , given over to one of those crises in which the heart opens in spite of ourselves , under a sudden shock, she no longer thought of the place, the time, or anything around her. Pressed to my breast, she continued to supplicate, adding the confession of her past wrongs and a thousand promises for the future. I had at first resisted the pull of this unexpected expansion, soon subjugated myself, I answered everything that my emotion inspired in me. The voice of the countess tore me from this brief confusion. At first speechless with surprise, she had just seized her sister’s hand, crying out: “What are you doing, sir? Have you forgotten that you are heard, that you are watched?” Nancy raised her head, and the consciousness of her surroundings returned to her with the speed of lightning. She blushed and freed herself. I held her hand as it slipped from my shoulder, and, turning to the visitors who had withdrawn a few paces away with ironic discretion: “We can be seen and heard, Madame la Comtesse,” I replied, “for our affection has nothing to hide. The cruel ordeal you have just attempted was merely useless… ” “Could I have foreseen such an outburst?” she murmured. “Indeed,” I continued bitterly, “more skillful people would have known better how to control their turmoil; the habit of shameful secrets teaches dissimulation. ” “Sir… ” “But we, Madame, can show our attachment without fear, for the very freedom of its expression is a testimony to its purity. ” “So you dare to admit it!” cried the Countess. “And I would like all those who doubt it to be able to hear me, ” I replied, exalted by the emotions I had just experienced; I would like to be able to repeat everywhere that this love is all my consolation, all my strength, all my glory; that I owe it what I have tasted of Sweetest joy on earth! Ah! Don’t tremble, Nancy, don’t lower your eyes; I could make this confession before God himself without blushing… and if anyone still doubts it now, let them say so. As I spoke, I held the young woman’s hands tightly around my heart, which was beating to breaking point, and I cast an interrogating glance at the knight and his companions. I would have liked, in the sort of irritated drunkenness that carried me away, to catch the slightest sign of uncertainty or mockery: but all remained motionless. The countess alone gave us a look whose affected disdain poorly disguised anger. “Good!” she said; “as soon as threats become a means of justification, I must remain silent. The general will know how to defend his own honor!” She took the knight’s arm again and left. I returned to the drawing room with Nancy, who fell onto a sofa and covered her face with her hands. I knelt before her. Finding myself alone, all my excitement had subsided, and I was afraid of what I had just done. “Forgive me, Nancy,” I murmured sadly. “Oh! I was wrong, I feel it; but I could not accept that these people should dishonor us with our love. It would have been better to deny it, for the world can believe a lie, and it never believes in the purity of an attachment. Ah! Why did I come? Why did I not deny your sister sooner when she told you of my departure? You are weeping, Nancy! My God! You are weeping, and it is I who am the cause… it is I who have compromised you! ” “I am not weeping for that,” she said gently, “but because now I must leave you. “Leave me!…” “Do you want the Countess to denounce me to the general? ” “Alas! Whatever you do from now on, she will reveal to him what happened . “No, because I will warn her,” said Nancy resolutely. “Tomorrow I am leaving to join him, and I will confess everything to him. ” I made a move. “Oh! don’t try to dissuade me, Henri,” she added; “many times , already, I have thought of telling him everything. If in our unions formed by calculation or chance, the woman cannot promise love, she must, at least, promise sincerity: the general will know everything, and then… he himself will decide my fate. ” “But if he rejects you?” I cried. “Then,” she said, getting up and holding out her hand, “I will remember that I still have a friend.” I covered that hand with kisses, with tears, then Nancy bade me farewell, promising to write me the result of her interview with the general.
She left the next day as she had decided, and I waited eight days with an inexpressible pang of heartache. Finally, I received a note from her; it contained only a few lines written in a trembling hand; I have always retained them; here they are: I will not see the general until tomorrow; but do not expect any news from me; leave Paris, France; leave for the United States as you once planned, everything is over between us! Do not ask me why, do not ever try to find out; love me enough to obey blindly. Farewell! This letter struck me down. What had happened and where did this new resolution come from? Why this rupture? Why my departure? Why the visible despair in this letter? What should I do finally? Stay or obey? After a night spent in heart-rending hesitation, I decided to write to Nancy, warning her that I was awaiting a new order. She replied: Go and forget the one who will die blessing you. The paper was stained with the trace of her tears; I kissed it with an indescribable heartbreak, and I left that same evening for Le Havre. Eight days later I was on my way to America. Here the old man stopped. The last part of his story seemed to have awakened memories buried in his memory, but to which he returned with a painful joy. He kept for some time silence, as if he wanted to contemplate these phantoms of youth that had appeared only once in his life, and were now so far from him. The listeners respected this kind of reverie. Without penetrating the meaning of all that he had just told them, the porter, Marc and Françoise had understood that they were hearing the story of a great mind and a great heart, and their friendship for the old neighbor had imperceptibly transformed itself into a respectful admiration. As for the Ferret, he listened with the indifferent patience of people who are thinking of something else. After a rather long pause, M. Michel raised his head, and, seeing all eyes fixed on him: “Pardon,” he continued, “I forget that you are waiting for the continuation of my story; I can now finish it quickly and take you, without further stops, through a long span of years. A few months after my arrival in America, a meeting with a traveler who had just arrived from France made me learn, by chance, of Nancy’s death. This horrible news took away all desire from me to return to Europe: I left for the most remote states of the Union, seeking to destroy my pain with new sensations and trying to return to my former studies. My efforts finally succeeded; and, when I left again for Paris, six years later, I had completed my research and formulated the system of social reorganization whose elements I had been gathering for so many years. I had resolved to try it out in a colony founded at the very gates of Paris, so that its success would open the eyes of the most blinded. I devoted all my fortune to this attempt; but it was not enough , other resources were needed. I addressed myself first to the government, exposing, in a memorandum, the miseries and ignorance of the people; but I was told through my cousin, who had inherited a new title and who then held important functions, that right-thinking people did not desire the education of the people and should not speak of their misery! I was still quite stunned by this answer, when I received the visit of a man dressed in black, with a modest appearance and a caressing speech, who had learned of my project and who came to offer me the support of the clergy. He only asked for a few small modifications in my plan. I would have substituted the church for the theater, processions for public rejoicings, the litanies of the saints for evening conversations, and the absolute power of the confessor for the limited power of the Chosen One. My colony thus became a copy of the reductions established by the Jesuits in Paraguay. I thanked the black man, pointing out that my goal was not to change a people of men into a troop of children, and that far from wanting to organize death, I wanted to give more expansion to life. After the government and the clergy, there remained the bourgeoisie. I addressed myself to one of the leaders of this opposition who then boasted of representing all popular and progressive ideas. After hearing me, he pointed out that the realization of my project would have no result on the elections and would consequently be useless to the country. Thus rejected by those who had wealth or power in their hands, I appealed to everyone and published an exposition of my system. This publicity, far from serving it, ended up compromising it: I suddenly saw myself surrounded by this cloud of hornets accustomed to feeding on the honey of others and living from stings instead of dying from them. Thanks to them, my ideas were distorted; I was lent some that I had never had; my name was replaced by a grotesque nickname; I finally became one of those toys who, in real life, fill the role of the fool in a melodrama, charged with amusing whenever the author lacks imagination, and against whom everything is permitted. Seeing that I could not hope for any help from others for my enterprise, I wanted to attempt it alone. All my assets were pledged and I had the first works begun. That was my fault! I should have understand that a system could not be translated into practice without a long education of those who must take their place in it. For regeneration to be possible, everyone must have learned their role as a new man, and to want to change, without preparation, their social atmosphere is to suddenly transport to the torrid zones an inhabitant born under the pole. My resources were insufficient, moreover, and, before the preparatory work was completed, the money ran out. This setback afflicted me, without discouraging me. Disinterested in what occupied others, I had transferred all the strength and patience in me to this idea that I saw mocked, but that I felt fruitful. What did the injustice of men matter to me? Christopher Columbus too had been treated as a visionary, until the day when he was able to show everyone his New World. Now, mine was there, in the very midst of those who denied it; It only had to be made visible, and a small sum was enough for that. But it had to be obtained at all costs! I first solicited those I had associated with in my prosperity, then those whose names alone were known to me, then everyone. Wrapped in my hopes like a magic cloud that prevented me from seeing the ironic glances and the disdainful smiles, I faced everything without shame. I had begun by addressing myself to the people who could understand me and to whom I tried to explain my project: but finally, rejected everywhere, I resolved to address myself to the crowd. One often saw beggars standing at the doors of public buildings, and who there, with outstretched hand and veiled head, repeated to each passer-by: “For a poor family! ” What hunger made them do, I wanted to do for an idea. I stopped one evening near the Louvre, and I held out my hand to those who passed by, saying: “For the happiness of the human race!” The singularity of the request earned me abundant alms that evening; they increased still further in the following days. I had become an object of curiosity, and the crowd went to the Louvre to see me; but the very purpose of the collection soon betrayed the one who was making it; my cousin, informed in what way I was dishonoring a name allied to his, had me forbidden to continue it. I therefore found myself at the end of my resources, when the law was passed which granted emigrants compensation for goods sold for the benefit of the nation. Besides the Brisaie and its dependencies, which the devotion of the farmers had preserved for me, my family owned, in Brittany, considerable estates of which the Revolution had stripped me, and which gave me the right to compensation. I therefore regarded the new law as a stroke of Providence. I was far from foreseeing what this one was preparing for me. One morning I received the invitation to appear before a family council, assembled according to the order of the court of first instance of the Seine, and I learned that my cousin was continuing my ban. I will not dwell on the interrogation that I then had to undergo, nor on the one to which I was again subjected in the council chamber; it will suffice to tell you that they armed themselves, before the court, with poorly understood answers, the most daring passages of my books, finally with public opinion and my last acts to have me declared in a state of insanity. My cousin was given me as guardian and thus found himself in possession of the new fortune that I owed to the compensation. The rest is known to you. Locked up in the nursing home where this man was guard, I remained there until chance allowed me to escape. By an unexpected stroke of luck, my former landlord had kept, without disturbing anything, the small apartment I had occupied before my captivity; I sold the furniture to meet the rent arrears and kept only my papers, with this armchair and this desk which had belonged to my mother. –Ah! I understand now why they are so different from all the stay, said Françoise, who looked at the two pieces of furniture with tenderness. “Yes,” the old man continued gently, “they speak to me of better times, but without the sight of them having anything discouraging for me: far from it, it seems to rejoice me and lift me up, for it reminds me of what I have sacrificed to the truth. Looking at the escutcheons of this desk and the crown sculpted at the top of this armchair, poor M. Michel feels proud of no longer being Lord of La Brisaie or Duke of Saint-Alofe.” Marc, who was listening with his arms crossed and his head bowed, straightened up at this word. “Of Saint-Alofe,” he repeated, “did you say Duke of Saint-Alofe? ” “That is my name,” M. Michel continued. “And you are the only one to bear it?” “Alone.” “But then,” cried Marc, palpitating, “the woman you loved… was she Baroness Louis?” The old man shuddered. “How do you know?” he asked in a broken voice. “It was her!” Marc continued agitatedly. “Ah! Now I understand her departure to join the general in Vendée… then… later, this letter! ” He stopped and passed his hand over his forehead, which had turned pale. ” Finish,” said the Duke. “I understand everything,” he continued, without answering the old man and speaking to himself; “also, when she was dying, it was the Duke of Saint-Alofe she was calling on… it was to him that she was recommending her daughter. ” “Her daughter!” interrupted the old man, startled. “She left a daughter? ” “Whom her will entrusted to your guardianship. ” “Great God! And this daughter is alive? ” “She is here, delivered into the hands of the countess, her aunt, and soon to be sacrificed! ” “What do you mean?” “That in a few days, she will be the wife of a heartless debauchee, Arthur de Luxeuil. ” The duke made a movement. “And she has neither counsel nor support to defend her?” he cried. “I am waiting for one,” replied Marc, “the very one who, in your absence, accepted the guardianship, M. de Vercy. ” Françoise, who had until then listened with curious interest, interrupted the office boy. “Wait,” said Françoise, “de Vercy… I seem to remember hearing that name before… isn’t he a gentleman who lives in the provinces? ” “Indeed,” replied Marc. “It must be him I met this morning at the hotel,” resumed the grisette; “you know the stranger who asked for the address of M. Dufloc the banker?… Besides, I must have the card he gave me; see for yourself!” Marc took it quickly and read: DE VERCY, Counselor to the Royal Court of Angers. “So he has arrived,” he cried. “Did you see him, Madame Charles? ” “Yesterday evening, at the Hôtel des Étrangers. I must even go back there to warn her not to count on Charles today; he was supposed to be expecting her around one o’clock. ” Marc took out his watch. “Half past twelve,” he said; “but we will arrive with a cabriolet; quickly, Mademoiselle Françoise, your shawl, your bonnet; I will take you. ” The grisette ran to get ready while he looked for his hat. “What are you going to do and what do you hope for?” asked the anxious old man. “You will know when I return, Monsieur le Duc,” said Marc, reaching the door. “If Monsieur de Vercy does his duty, everything can still be saved. I will not only speak to him about his ward, but about you.” The ban must be lifted, you must be given back your name and your property… Before the end of the day, Monsieur le Duc will know what we can hope for. Chapter 25. The traveler from the Hôtel des Étrangers. Françoise was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs with a box of flowers that she was taking to Madame Ouvrard. They both ran to the first porch, under which a coach house was parked, and got in. Arriving at the hotel, the grisette went into the drawing room to deliver her bouquets, while Marc went up to number 47. The furnished hotels of Paris have a special appearance that deserves to be studied. They are not, like provincial inns, resting places where one arrives and departs at any time, but night lodgings which one leaves in the morning, and to which one returns only after the hour of the show. To see, during the day, their closed rooms, their deserted staircases, their long silent corridors, one would think one of those royal villas whose only tenants are the guardian and the porter. The office boy climbed three floors without meeting anyone and arrived at the indicated apartment. It consisted of two rooms, the first of which served as an antechamber. Marc happened to find there one of the hotel waiters who was leaving with the breakfast tray and to whom he asked Mr. the councilor of Vercy. A voice, coming from the next room, prevented the answer by shouting to enter. The waiter showed the door to the visitor and withdrew. But Marc, after taking a step forward, suddenly stopped on the threshold which separated the two rooms. At the moment of speaking to the man who was going to decide Honorine’s fate, a painful anguish had seized him; he seemed to hesitate. Now, although this hesitation had lasted only a moment, it gave the councilor, who was standing near the fireplace, time to turn around and see the office boy. He started, half rose with a stifled exclamation, and looked around him, as if seeking an exit; but perceiving that Marc had just decided to enter, he threw himself back in his armchair, abruptly raising the velvet collar that trimmed his ample green frock coat. Overcome by his anxious preoccupation, the office boy did not notice this singular movement. He advanced with a little timidity and stopped, his head bare, a few steps from the councilor. The latter remained buried in his collar and the handkerchief over his mouth, so that only his eyes were visible. “The councilor will excuse me if I disturb him,” said Marc, assuring himself with a quick glance that they were alone; “but this is an important matter… I have come to speak to him about his ward, Mademoiselle Honorine Louis. ” M. de Vercy made a sort of grunt and shifted in his chair. “The councilor must have received a letter signed Marc?” the office boy continued. “Yes… I think… I remember,” murmured the man in the green frock coat. “That Marc, it’s me, sir.” The councilor threw a blazing look at the visitor over his collar . “After?” he said abruptly. “Pardon,” the office boy continued, a little astonished at the magistrate’s manner, “but I promised Monsieur explanations… which I have come to give him. ” “Later, later!” stammered M. de Vercy, who seemed to be experiencing an inexplicable unease and whose eyes were constantly turning towards the door. “Later it will be too late,” said Marc quickly. ” Mademoiselle Louis’s marriage is to take place tomorrow. ” “Well! What does that matter to me?” replied the man in the frock coat. Marc could not restrain a gesture of surprise. “Has the councilor forgotten that he is Mademoiselle Honorine Louis’s guardian,” he continued quickly, “and that, as such, he must watch over her future? ” “Well?” asked M. de Vercy. “Well! That future is lost if she marries her cousin,” continued the office boy; “for the marriage of M. de Luxeuil is only a means of repairing his ruin, an arrangement promised to his creditors, to his mistress.” Seeing the agitation of M. de Vercy, who had risen: “I can prove it,” he continued, raising his voice; “let the councilor inquire, I will provide all the means to know the truth. I will give him the addresses, the names of those he can question. ” “Very well,” said the councilor, who had just heard the door of the first room open; “write them… on this table… I will make inquiries.” Marc, a little disconcerted by the laconicism of Honorine’s tutor, hesitantly approached the table he had indicated and sat down to write. But, while slowly preparing the pen and paper, he reflected on what he should do. M. de Vercy evidently had a motive for avoiding any explanation, and, judging by his reception, Marc must have doubted at least his zeal, if not his loyalty. He was wondering whether to insist again or to seek some other means of salvation for the young girl, when his eyes, as he rose, encountered the mirror placed opposite the desk at which he was writing. Suddenly his pen stopped, and he himself remained motionless with shock. The scene reflected in this mirror had, in fact, something too strange not to fix his attention. The councilor had his back to him, but he was exchanging rapid signs with the person who had just entered the antechamber and whose livery could be distinguished from afar. He turned around occasionally to make sure that Marc could not see him, then began again with gestures that seemed to mean: “Be careful! Don’t show yourself… he is here…” The one to whom the signs were addressed doubtless did not understand them, for he approached with small steps, as if hesitating, until he reached the entrance to the second room. At the moment when his tall figure was framed in the opening of the door, the man in the green frock coat, furious at not being able to make himself understood, showed him his two clenched fists and turned towards Marc in terror. In this movement his collar fell back and revealed his whole face . The office boy dropped the pen he was holding with a cry. He had just recognized Jacques the Parisian! What followed was quicker than words can express, as quick as thought. At the shout of the office boy who had jumped up, the man in livery, who was none other than Moser, had finally guessed the danger and closed the door behind him, while Jacques, rummaging in the side pocket of his polonaise, had rushed towards Marc: the latter felt himself struck under the shoulder before he could think of putting himself in defense. He recoiled, stunned; a second blow, then a third, felled him. The Parisian threw himself on both knees on his chest and wrapped his head in the carpet to stifle his groans. “Is it locked?” asked Moser, who had remained leaning against the door. “Close, close quickly!” stammered Jacques. The Alsatian turned the key and ran up. “It’s still locking!” he said, leaning over the office boy. “The turnstile,” said Jacques, whose voice was thick and broken, as if in intoxication. The Jew understood; he picked up the knife his companion had dropped, put the handle through Marc’s cravat, and made several turns. The wounded man’s faint moan stopped immediately; a convulsive shudder ran through his limbs, then everything remained motionless. “It’s done!” said Jacques, throwing back the rug with which he had covered his face. “It was even worse than the councilor!” observed Moser. “Yes,” continued the Parisian; “but for the councilor they worked in the open air, and there was the Loire nearby… whereas here… what are we going to do with this bundle now?” Before the Alsatian had time to reply, the sound of voices was heard in the next room. The two assassins sat up in terror. “There’s someone in the antechamber,” said Jacques, all the muscles of his face tensed. “We must open our mouths!” replied the Jew, pale and with wide eyes. “They know we’re here! ” “Ah! It’s cold, how about we get out then? ” “We’d have to be able to hide the thing,” continued the Parisian, who was looking at the corpse , then around him. Suddenly his eyes fell on one of those hanging wardrobes, designed for hanging clothes. He pointed it out to the Alsatian. “There,” he murmured, “quick, help me!” Moser helped him lift the motionless body and carry it to the wardrobe. As they were setting it down, there was a soft knock at the door. “Don’t answer, and close the doors,” said the Parisian, running to the blood-soaked rug, which he rolled into a corner. There was a louder knock. “Who’s there?” he asked. “It’s me, Mr. Councilor,” said Françoise’s voice; “I’ve come for the banker’s address… ” “The banker!” repeated the Jew; “you must talk to him. ” “Soon!” shouted Jacques, “I’m getting dressed.” And turning to Moser: “Wipe off the blood,” he added in a low voice; “there, near the window. ” “And you, take the dropper,” said the latter. “Is there nothing left? ” “I think so. ” “Open then.” “Down again, down again!… You must look everywhere… If the fool were to screw something up…” “Too bad for her,” said Jacques, whose hand was convulsively gripping the handle of the knife; The boy who was driving her has come back down… Whatever happens, I’ll stop the girl from selling us. Open up, I tell you. “There you go! ” “And above all, guard the door; you never know what might happen.” All this was said quickly and in a low voice, while the Jew made the traces of the murder disappear; he finally went to the door and opened it. The grisette entered, nimble and laughing. “Well! Where is Monsieur Marc?” she asked, only just seeing the two companions whom, from their costumes, she took to be the master and the servant. “Which Monsieur Marc?” replied Jacques in a hoarse voice. “Well! But the one who was just now with the councilor,” continued Françoise, smiling; “the waiter from the hotel told me he left you together. ” “Is it to throw him up that you went?” asked Moser abruptly. “No,” said the astonished young girl; “but I don’t understand how he could have gone out.” As she spoke, she cast a curious glance around her, as if she still hoped to catch a glimpse of the office boy. Jacques made a gesture of impatience. “Thunder! You see we’re alone!” he said in a brutal tone. “I’m in a hurry; let’s finish! What do you have to say to me? ” At this unexpected violence, Françoise, who had not until then paid attention to her interlocutor, raised her head and was struck by the alteration of his features. “Forgive me, sir,” she said in a trembling voice; “I wanted… I came…” “For Mr. Tufloc’s address!” interrupted Moser. “Your husband, you thundered all the time? ” “Not yet,” resumed Françoise timidly, “and I came just to warn you that Charles would not be able to see you before tomorrow. ” “To hell with it!” interrupted Jacques, stamping his foot, it would be too late to charge the ticket. “Too late! It’s cheap,” cried the Jew, “a thousand francs guarantee! ” “Will you go and present it tomorrow, when we have left the hotel?” said the Parisian, casting a significant glance towards the wardrobe… The Jew made a gesture of despair. “Imbecile! To have waited for information from that girl,” resumed Jacques with real rage. “She was saying her husband was in a panic!” observed Moser. “Yes, and thanks to her we shall lose everything. ” “It’s cold… she’s the one who’s crazy…” Both of them gave Françoise a look that made her tremble. The Parisian was leaning against the marble fireplace, pale and fierce, while Moser barred the entrance. The grisette dropped the card she was holding and stepped back a few steps, trying to justify herself in a broken voice; but suddenly she stopped. Behind her, it seemed to her that a dull moan was coming from the wall. She turned around, frozen with surprise, and listened. The two partners had also heard the complaint and seen the young girl’s movement, they exchanged a glance; Moser approached the entrance, while the Parisian put his hand in the pocket of his polonaise. There was a pause, and there was a terrible wait; but everything remained silent. Convinced that she had made a mistake, Françoise stammered a few more excuses, picked up the box that had fallen from her, and advanced towards the door. After looking at Jacques questioningly, the Alsatian unaffectedly pulled the bolt he had previously pushed, and stood aside to let her pass. The grisette quickly crossed the antechamber and disappeared. “Now let’s give it up ( let’s flee),” said the Parisian hastily, buttoning his frock coat and grabbing a leaded rattan from near the fireplace. “You have the bow, at least?” asked Moser. “Yes, and the wallet? ” “The foci. ” “Come on, let’s go. ” “I’ll do it, I’ll do it,” said the Jew, who hastily began to gather some things. But seeing that Jacques left without waiting for him and had already reached the stairs, he decided to abandon everything and follow him. Meanwhile, Françoise, who had come back downstairs, all flustered, had stopped at the lodge to ask for Marc; he hadn’t been seen leaving. Madame Ouvrard, who arrived at that moment, noticed the grisette’s pallor and asked what was wrong. “It was your travelers upstairs… who frightened me…” replied Françoise, panting. “What travelers? ” “That councilor, you know very well… and his servant. ” “Did they miss you, by any chance? ” “No… oh! no; but they got angry because Charles couldn’t come… and they had an air… then… I thought I heard… ” “What? ” “Nothing… nothing,” said the grisette, trying to smile; “it’s funny how there are days when you get caught up in something so trivial… true, I thought for a moment that they wanted to hurt me… but that’s all over… Only, I don’t understand how Monsieur Marc could have left.” “Leaving again,” said Madame Ouvrard, “is impossible; the cabriolet is still there. ” Françoise looked through the skylight of the box. “It’s true!” she cried. “How can that be?… And yet there was no one with these gentlemen. ” “Ah! My God! What have you been walking in, Miss Charles? ” interrupted the doorkeeper. “Your footsteps are leaving their mark everywhere.” Françoise lowered her eyes and saw, indeed, the mark of her boot imprinted on the rush carpet. “It’s a red, damp print,” Madame Ouvrard continued, astonished. ” It looks like blood. ” Françoise cried out. “Blood… upstairs…” she stammered. “Ah! My God!… and that noise I heard. ” “What noise?” asked the hostess. “It was like a moan!…” The three women looked at each other. “Come now, she’s crazy!” resumed Madame Ouvrard, fear must have made her ears ring. “No, no,” insisted Françoise, “I’m sure… and then I remember now… they didn’t open right away… and when I came in at last, they had an air!… Oh! they’re not travelers like the others, Madame Ouvrard. ” “My God!” resumed the hostess, whose confusion was beginning to get the better of the young worker, without her wanting to admit it, “if that’s all it takes to reassure you, I can send Olivier to number 47 where they’re staying… ” “There they are coming out!” interrupted the porter sharply. Françoise and Madame Ouvrard put their heads out. Moser and Jacques quickly crossed the carriage entrance. “They look as if they were running away,” said the latter, struck by their haste. “And they haven’t handed over the key,” observed the porter. Madame Ouvrard rang briskly; Two boys ran up. “The duplicate key to number 47?” she asked. One of the boys went to get it and they all went up together to the indicated apartment. They opened the first door and crossed the room that served as an antechamber without noticing anything; but when they reached the second, Madame Ouvrard was struck by the disorder in which Jacques and Moser had left it. She approached the desk and saw on the floor some traces of blood that had been badly wiped off; this blood formed a still damp trail. to the cupboard whose key had been taken; but a waiter with some effort lifted a door which opened and revealed Marc’s bloody body. After the first moment of terror, the commissioner and the doctor were called. The former drew up a report while the latter tried to revive the office boy who still showed some signs of life. Françoise, to whom the possibility of being useful had restored all her courage, helped him with as much intelligence as zeal, and, thanks to their care, the wounded man finally regained his senses. His gaze, after having fluttered for a moment, rested on the florist and he held out his hand to her. “See, see, he recognizes me,” she cried with delight. “Don’t you, Monsieur Marc, you recognize me?” He nodded affirmatively. “If the wounded man has recovered his faculties,” said the commissioner , approaching, “we will proceed with the interrogation… ” “I object!” interrupted the doctor; “in the state he is in, the slightest fatigue can be fatal. ” “I will point out to the doctor that the slightest delay can be irreparable,” replied the first speaker sharply; “if the victim has only a few moments to live, we will have lost the opportunity to obtain precious information from him. ” “For the moment,” continued the doctor, “it is above all a question of helping a suffering being. ” “It is above all a question of punishing the guilty, sir,” added the commissioner. “I declare that you will not question him!” cried the doctor. “I declare contradictorily that I will question him!” replied the commissioner. “My God! You are going to kill him with your discussions,” interrupted Françoise; What is the use of saying that he must or must not be questioned? Don’t you see that the poor dear man wants to speak without being able to; his lips move and nothing is heard. The commissioner and the doctor noted the accuracy of the remark, bending over the wounded man. “In that case,” said the former, “I will close my report with the declaration that the said Marc, when questioned, found himself unable to reply. Has a stretcher been ordered? ” “It has just arrived,” replied several voices. The commissioner gathered his papers. “Then it is up to the doctor to indicate the precautions to be taken for the transport of the wounded man,” he said, locking up his morocco portfolio. “Good God! Let him be carried as gently as possible,” replied the doctor, who, from the moment they stopped arguing with him about the patient, had no more reason to insist on it. He put on his gloves, the commissioner took his hat, and both left without greeting each other. The next day, the entire Parisian press reported the event that had occurred at the Hôtel des Étrangers. First, the ministerial newspapers read: A murder, the circumstances of which are not yet known, has just been committed in one of the hotels on the Rue Richelieu. As soon as the district commissioner, M. Levasseur, was informed, he went to the scene and investigated the crime with his usual zeal and intelligence. The improvements made in the public security services by the present administration leave no doubt that the culprits will be discovered . Then, in the opposition newspapers: Yet another new proof of the negligence of the Power in everything that concerns the fortune or the lives of citizens. A man has just been assassinated and robbed in broad daylight, in one of the hotels on the Rue Richelieu; Dr. Arnout, who lives opposite at number 24, was fortunately notified immediately, and thanks to his skill the injured man was able to be brought back to life. However, Françoise, who remained alone with the office boy, had helped to place him on the stretcher and followed him to the hospital. When she arrived there, she wanted to take her leave of him, promising to return the next day. But this promise seemed to awaken in Marc a whole series of memories; he made an effort to raise his head, and could not make it leave the bolster that supported it. An expression of despair tightened his features. “Don’t worry,” repeated Françoise, convinced that he had not understood her; “I will come back tomorrow, I tell you… and early!” The wounded man stretched out his hands in anguish and wanted to speak, but the words reached Françoise’s ear only in an unintelligible murmur. She leaned over the stretcher. “Come now, calm down, dear Mr. Marc,” she said in a tender tone; “everything will be all right… You would like to tell me something, wouldn’t you … is it to ask me to notify your office?… or to watch over your room… No, my God! What then?… ” The expression of the wounded man was heartbreaking to see; his lips moved to speak, his eyelids trembled and his whole face was contorted by a supreme effort! Finally, the continuity of this effort broke the icy seal that closed his lips; a faint sound reached the young worker, who leaned closer and felt the name of the Duke of Saint-Alofe dying in her ear! It was he whom the wounded man wanted to see; she ran to the Rue des Morts to bring him back to him. Chapter 26. Mother Louis. Since the consent wrung from Honorine and the latter’s resolution to persist in her sacrifice, everything had gone according to Arthur and his mother’s wishes. The day before the wedding had arrived without any word having been heard from M. de Vercy, and de Luxeuil was delighted by a delay that he could not understand, but from which he hoped to profit. He had just left the notary in charge of the marriage contract, after having long discussed with him and the Countess all the provisions that could be introduced into the document, to his advantage, and he was about to leave when a servant announced: Doctor Vorel with Mother Louis. The lightning striking the feet of the Countess and her son would have caused less shock to both of them. They rose with one movement and wanted to have the names repeated; but the door was suddenly pushed open with a crash, revealing the two people who had just been announced. The years had passed over M. Vorel, without leaving any noticeable traces ; they had given him neither the thinness nor the plumpness that old age usually brings. He was still the same man, except for a little less suppleness in his posture. Only the head, now bald above the temples and adorned in the middle with graying hair, had taken on a sort of false venerable air that made the expression of the face more deceptive to the crowd and more formidable to real observers. As for Mother Louis, she was a fat woman tanned by the sun, rich in color and wearing the costume of Norman peasant women in all its splendor. The Countess and Arthur had remained petrified at the other end of the room when the peasant woman saw them. “Ah! ah! that must be the bourgeois and the bourgeoise,” she said, leaving Vorel’s arm. “You are not mistaken, Mother,” replied the latter, who bowed low; “it is Madame la Comtesse and Monsieur de Luxeuil. ” “That is the matchmaker,” cried Mother Louis, laughing; “well! he suits me; he is very nice… Come and kiss your grandmother, my boy. ” Arthur merely inclined his head slightly. “That is all the caresses you give me,” cried Mother Louis, scandalized. “Pardon, Mother,” observed Vorel in his pure and caressing voice; ” but our arrival is so unexpected. ” “Unexpected…” repeated the old woman sourly; When they invited me, was it to show me off? Then they only have to say so. But, in any case, I want to see the little one; I’m her grandmother. After all, you can’t marry her against your will; and, as they say in the country: A girl who’s engaged is not married. At this kind of threat, the countess made a movement. “May Madame Louis excuse us,” she said with a visible effort, “but as her letter did not say that she was to come… ” “I believe so,” interrupted the fat woman, “I wanted to surprise you ; but if that’s how you receive people, one can turn up one’s hand and leave without signing the contract. ” These last words, spoken with a shrill irritation, abruptly reminded the Countess and her son what could be expected of Mother Louis. They exchanged glances, exchanged a sign, and their coldness disappeared instantly, as if by magic. “What are you saying,” cried Madame de Luxeuil, who ran to the old woman and took her by the hands, “go back!… Ah! We are so happy that you have decided to come… But, we had so little hope, that at first I was quite dizzy… I thought I was mistaken… Sit down, dear Madame Louis… and you, doctor… “Thank you, thank you, it’s not necessary,” said Mother Louis, who allowed herself to be led reluctantly to the sofa. “You arrived today?” interrupted Madame de Luxeuil, addressing Vorel. “Immediately, Madame la Comtesse,” replied the doctor. “But Madame Louis must need rest,” interrupted Arthur quickly; “we must have her room prepared.” And he pulled violently at the bell-cord. “It’s useless!” replied the peasant woman, whose discontent was not appeased. “Perhaps Madame Louis would prefer to have something,” said the Countess eagerly; “some broth, for example! ” “No,” said the old woman. “Coffee, then?” “No, no. ” “A chop and Madeira!” Arthur suggested. Mother Louis’s face brightened a little. “Madeira!” she repeated, turning to the doctor. “I’ve never had that; is it good, my dear (doctor)?” Vorel nodded. “Let’s see the chop… and the… as he said, the young fellow… Since we’re in Paris, we must have a bit of fun. ” Madame de Luxeuil gave the necessary orders to the valet who had just entered. Honorine, warned, soon arrived, moved, and threw herself into her grandmother’s arms, sobbing. “Well! What’s the matter with her!” cried the peasant woman, embracing her. “It makes her cry to see me!… Come, come, will you wipe your eyes, little one; don’t whine like that; I am very happy; be happy too. And she kissed her again. But in the state Honorine was in, the sudden arrival of her grandmother was like an unexpected shock that had stirred everything in the depths of her tormented heart; her tears, far from stopping under the caresses of the peasant woman, seemed to redouble. “Is she at least a tearful girl?” said Mother Louis, letting herself be won over, without knowing why, by the tenderness of her granddaughter. “Come now, that’s enough, my nercibotte (little one); are n’t we happy to be getting married?” Honorine, who was kneeling on a stool at the old woman’s feet, kissed her hands. “That’s no answer,” continued Mother Louis, interested in spite of herself. “Come now, Honorine, it doesn’t take that much butter to make a quarteron; answer yes or no.” “Here are the chops and the Madeira,” interrupted Arthur, who saw the servant appear with a tray. This unexpected diversion changed the course of Mother Louis’s thoughts; she turned her eyes towards the breakfast which had just been placed on a small lacquered pedestal table, and that expression of suppressed gluttony, peculiar to peasants, lit up all her features. “Ah! it’s already ready,” she said; “well! good! there’s no way to sulk when you see such a feast.” And as Honorine leaned over her shoulder, she continued, forcing her to get up: “Come, there’s time for everything; my dear, here’s enough oremus.” You’ll have a bite to eat with me. Honorine excused herself. “As you see fit,” resumed the old woman, who did not want to waste time in explanations that she could have used better; “your uncle will agree. Isn’t it true, my dear, that you will take advantage of the good opportunity? It’s his right, you see; for, as the proverb says: If it rains on the priest, it drips on the vicar.” The mania for Norman proverbs was one of the old peasant woman’s infirmities. M. Vorel bowed in assent and sat down to table with his mother-in-law. She found everything excellent, especially the Madeira that Arthur poured for her, and to which she returned with a persistence that ended by alarming Madame de Luxeuil. The gaiety of the old miller’s wife became more boisterous and more communicative every moment ; she finally cried out, slapping the Countess on her knees: “By Jove! You’re a good Christian, Mam’ Luxeuil, and you’re not avaricious; I like that; so I’ll repay you. You’ll see what I’ll do for the little girl and the lad; something that will help them! For everyone needs help: we do help the good Lord to make good money.” The Countess and Arthur wanted to thank her, but she interrupted them, saying that they would have to wait until the next day, after the wedding, that for the quarter of an hour there was enough chatter and that she wanted to rest. Madame de Luxeuil offered to take her to the apartment she was to occupy. “Not you,” said the fat woman, whom the Madeira wine had made ribald, “but your young lad: I want him to be my valentin (gallant);” “without doing you any harm, however, my dear,” she added, turning to Honorine; “I won’t keep him long: what comes with the tide goes with the tide. ” And turning to the doctor: “Well! my dear, wouldn’t you like to go to bed a little too? You must need to sleep, for you are all Bishop of Avranche.” M. Vorel declared that he preferred to enjoy the company of Madame de Luxeuil, and Mother Louis went out with Arthur. But he soon returned, announcing that the old peasant woman had found a country girl among the servants at the hotel and had left them together speaking patois. The Countess could not restrain a gesture of annoyance; the doctor smiled. Although he had remained silent until then, nothing had escaped him. He alone had persuaded Mother Louis to make the journey to Paris, and this journey was not without motive for him; but he wanted, above all, to know the terrain well and to know which way to approach it. At first glance, he thought he understood that the proposed marriage held little appeal for the young girl. A few clever questions finally convinced him, and he let it be seen that he had guessed it. The Countess and Arthur, who knew the doctor’s skill, were seriously frightened. The former hastened to seize a pretext to get Honorine out. M. Vorel followed her with his eyes until she had disappeared. “It’s strange,” he said, with a sort of hesitation, “but I don’t find in our dear niece the joyful emotion that the approach of marriage usually gives rise to; she seems sad, tormented; one would say that she is hiding a secret always ready to explode. ” “Honorine!” cried Madame de Luxeuil, hiding her anxiety behind an air of gaiety; truly, doctor, you find her sad?… you think she is hiding a secret!… ah! ah! but you have never seen a young girl getting married? “It may be that I am, in this respect, a poor observer,” said Vorel humbly; “but, in any case, one could question the young girl, and if her grandmother sees as I do… askew, you can count on her not failing to do so. ” “And even if she does,” continued Arthur impatiently, ” does the doctor think that we have done violence to my cousin?” Vorel looked at him through his blue glasses. “I am convinced of the contrary,” he said with a slowness and immobility whose expression evidently contradicted his protest; “the choice of our dear niece could not have been determined by any threat, nor by any captivity, it was completely free; but Monsieur de Luxeuil knows as well as I do that a young girl’s will is variable. ” “What do you mean, Monsieur? ” “I mean that if Grandmother Louis began to question her granddaughter about her sad expression, that is a supposition… and that she expressed, by chance, the desire to see the marriage postponed… or to renounce it… I am still making a supposition… the grandmother would be capable of breaking everything off. ” Arthur made a movement. “Oh! she is a terrible woman,” added Vorel with a paternal air, “and she never listens to anything but her inspiration… ” “You forget that she gave her consent,” observed Madame de Luxeuil. “No doubt, no doubt,” replied the doctor deferentially; “but Madame la Comtesse understands well that this consent would become useless if our dear niece changed her mind… It is understood that it is always a supposition… ” “Which Monsieur Vorel would like to make a reality!” finished Arthur, who was at the end of his patience. The doctor feigned astonishment. “Me,” he said, “Monsieur de Luxeuil does not do me justice; on the contrary, no one desires more ardently than I the conclusion of his marriage… especially since it will allow me to finish a matter that has occupied me for a long time. ” The mother and son exchanged a look; they had just understood the purpose of Vorel’s trip. “Monsieur le Docteur should begin with this confession,” said Madame de Luxeuil in a mocking tone. “I try to begin at the beginning, Madame la Comtesse,” replied the doctor with the equivocal smile to which he was accustomed. “And may we know what it is about?” asked Arthur. “My God, nothing could be simpler! The Baroness owned a small forest in Touraine, enclosed within an estate belonging to my son, through his mother, and which I would like to acquire on reasonable terms. Until now, Honorine’s minority has been an obstacle; but now I can deal with Monsieur de Luxeuil. ” “Very well,” said Arthur, “after the wedding. ” “Oh! no,” replied Vorel, smiling, “after the wedding it would be too late; drawing up a contract would disturb the enchantments of the honeymoon; then I’ll leave at once. On the contrary, I wanted to propose to Monsieur de Luxeuil that we settle everything today. ” “Today,” repeated Arthur; “but I have no rights yet. ” “What does it matter? The deed can be post-dated by two days; the Countess’s notary knows business too well to refuse such an arrangement.” “However, Monsieur…” “Come now, don’t refuse me,” interrupted the doctor with his embarrassing smile. “It’s a way of forcing me to make wishes so that this marriage encounters no obstacles, and I am generally happy in what I wish for. ” Arthur seemed to hesitate. “I have the money with me,” added Vorel, “would you oblige me to take it back? ” The idea of immediate payment decided Luxeuil. “Well, so be it, by Jove!” he said; “since you want me to sell the bear’s skin in advance, let’s go to the notary and we’ll discuss the price. ” When they both returned a few hours later, the sale of the forest was concluded, and both their signatures given; as for Honorine’s, M. Vorel was making every effort to obtain it. The young girl was, in fact, in a state of mind that hardly allowed her to debate or refuse anything. When the time came to perform the sacrifice, her courage had given way to a sort of resigned stupor. She let herself be adorned without emotion, without regret, without fear; she had ceased to feel and to think. Mother Louis had repeated to her in vain that she was going to have a fel gars (good boy) for a husband, and that a wife should have a more coquetted (fresh), Honorine answered affirmatively to everything, but without having understood what was said to her, nor what she herself replied. Finally, the time having come, she went down to the drawing room where the notary and the witnesses were waiting. They were the Marquis de Chanteaux, Prince Dovrinski, Marquier and de Cillart. The marriage contract was read without giving rise to any comment; but at the moment of signing, Mother Louis spoke. “Just a moment,” she cried, “now that the tall black man has finished, it’s my turn. You have put there everything that the bridegrooms gave to each other… in fortune, that is… well! add an item for Mother Louis. ” The notary bowed and took a quill. “Put it,” the peasant woman continued, puffing herself up, “that the day the little one has her first, the grandmother promises to send two hundred crowns for the trousseau!” These words had been spoken with such a triumphant air of majesty that the notary thought he had misunderstood. “Pardon, madame,” he continued; “you said?” “Two hundred crowns!” repeated Mother Louis, emphasizing each syllable. The notary looked around him with an embarrassed look. “Write, write, sir,” said Arthur, who hid his disappointment under forced gaiety; “small presents maintain friendship. Madame Louis has, moreover, promised me my supply of mascapié (apple jam). “And I’m not going back on it, my boy,” continued the peasant woman, who hadn’t caught the mockery; I will send it to you whenever there is cider, as we must have this year, for you know the rule: Windy year Apple year. Only you must not mention the mascapié in the deed; because I want to send it with friendship!… The bill requested by Mother Louis once made, the signatures were given, and someone came to announce that the carriages were harnessed. M. le Marquis de Chanteaux advanced towards Honorine with a smile on his lips; but, at this supreme moment, life, so to speak suspended in the young girl, suddenly awoke: she was suddenly aware of what had just taken place, of what was being prepared, and she felt frozen with terror. The Marquis remained a few moments before her, his arm outstretched, and repeated the announcement that had just been made; but Honorine, pale, her eyes fixed, her two hands clenched on the arms of the armchair, remained motionless. A terrible crisis was taking place within her. Near the accomplishment of the accepted sacrifice, one of those repugnances, which are like the instinct of self-preservation of the soul, had suddenly annihilated her courage. In vain did the will struggle, in vain did it repeat to itself: it must be! it must be! an invincible force held her in chains. M. de Chanteaux, disconcerted by her silence and immobility, turned towards Madame de Luxeuil, who approached quickly and tried to take his hand; she was stiff and frozen! The Countess tried to encourage her with a few affectionate words; the young girl could no longer hear: the kind of combat that two opposing powers were waging within her was beyond her strength; after a few moments of apparent insensitivity, her lips turned pale, her floating head fell back and she fainted. There was a moment of terror among those present; but M. Vorel reassured them. He had the young girl taken to an adjoining room and soon returned with Madame de Luxeuil, announcing that she had regained her senses and that a few moments’ rest would be enough to restore her. Arthur apologized to the witnesses for this unforeseen delay and, to make the wait easier, suggested that they enter his room, where they could look through the newspapers, while Mother Louis, whose heart had been turned by her little girl’s accident, went to the pantry to get something. Left alone, the Countess and the doctor were about to return to Honorine, when the door of the drawing-room suddenly flew open : the servant entered and announced in a loud voice: MONSIEUR LE DUKE OF SAINT-ALOFE. Chapter 27. The Fixed Idea. By renouncing the name of M. Michel, the old man had also abandoned the costume in which we have shown him to readers until now; the trousers were replaced by white casimir breeches, fastened over the silk stockings by means of a silver-gilt buckle, and the fur-lined snuffer by a blue coat with a narrow collar, which revealed a straw-colored pique waistcoat. His cambric cravat, yellowed by time, was embroidered at the corners and fell over an almost straight Malines jabot; finally, the uncovered and rounded shoe was adorned with a small cockade of black satin ribbon. It was an Empire costume with all the faded freshness of clothes long preserved without having been used, and it took nothing less than the austere physiognomy of the old man to remove from it what might have been ridiculous and outdated. At the name Saint-Alofe announced by the footman, Madame de Luxeuil had turned away in astonishment; but on seeing the Duke in the same costume he had worn at their last meeting, she recognized him at once, despite the ravages of the years, and uttered an exclamation of terror. The arrival of Monsieur de Saint-Alofe at such a moment had, in fact, something so formidable that all her presence of mind deserted her; she remained standing in the same place, as if hallucinated by a ghost. Meanwhile, the Duke, having advanced slowly towards her, bowed; with a mechanical movement the Countess returned the salute, showed him an armchair , and let herself fall back into the loveseat she had occupied a moment before. Until then, not a word had been exchanged. Vorel, astonished, looked alternately between Madame de Luxeuil and the Duke; Finally, the latter, who had remained standing as if he were waiting for the doctor to leave, turned to Arthur’s mother. “I fear that my visit may seem unwelcome,” he said with polite coldness; “I know that it interrupts a family ceremony… ” “It is true,” stammered Madame de Luxeuil, trying to compose herself; “my son is getting married today; the contract has just been signed… ” “Already!” interrupted the Duke; “you have been diligent, Madame la Comtesse. ” “Far from it, Monsieur,” resumed Madame de Luxeuil, who, as she spoke, was gradually regaining her composure; “on the contrary, we are late, and the witnesses have been waiting for a long time… ” “Ah! you have the witnesses,” repeated the Duke, looking fixedly at the Countess; “and… among them, Madame, is there one who can be an enlightened and serious defender of Mademoiselle Honorine Louis?” “A defender… What makes you suppose she needs one, sir? ” “Her position, Madame la Comtesse, and above all her age, which entitles her to the support of a guardian. ” “So we had hoped for Monsieur de Vercy,” Madame de Luxeuil observed; “but, despite his promises, he has not arrived… ” “And he will not arrive,” the old man added gravely; “for Monsieur de Vercy, the councillor, has been murdered! ” The Countess cried out. “Murdered!” she repeated; “where? Good God! ” “Mr. de Vercy died on the road,” the Duke continued, “under the blows of two wretches who then appeared in Paris in his place, hoping to be paid the sums owed to him. A man recognized them, they struck him, and it was while listening to his interrogation just now that I learned everything.” Arthur’s mother clasped her hands with an exclamation of horror. “Death has suddenly deprived Mademoiselle Honorine Louis of her support,” continued M. de Saint-Alofe; “that is why I have come here to take her place and claim from her my rights as first guardian.” Madame de Luxeuil seemed more seized than surprised. From the moment the Duke appeared, she had sensed that he was coming to intervene and obstruct Arthur’s marriage: but, preoccupied only by a fear that the reader will soon learn, she had not thought of the title that he had just invoked, so she found herself, so to speak, taken by surprise. However, she tried to escape her embarrassment by audacity. “Monsieur le duc doubtless does not hope to make us take his claims seriously,” she said haughtily; “in a few moments, Mademoiselle Honorine Louis will bear a name that will make any outside protection useless . ” “But she does not bear it yet, Madame la Comtesse,” objected M. de Saint-Alofe, “and until then, you cannot refuse the request I have just made to you. ” “And what is it, Monsieur? ” “Obliged by my duty to watch over the ward that M. de Vercy can no longer protect, I wish to speak to her here once, just once, but without witnesses, without interruptions, and freely. ” The countess’s features darkened. “And for what purpose this conversation?” she continued. “Another might refuse to say it,” replied the old man, “but I believe I owe the truth to the Countess. I want to see the young girl whose future is about to be engaged, to know if this engagement is spontaneous, considered; if she knows well the one she is marrying; if this marriage, finally, is a free preference or a condition to which she submits. ” “And you thought that we could allow this insulting examination?” cried Madame de Luxeuil. “I thought that the Countess would understand the necessity of submitting to it,” said M. de Saint-Alofe, still calm. “Never! Sir, never!” interrupted Arthur’s mother. ” All the conditions required by law have been fulfilled; No one can now oppose this marriage, and Monsieur le Duc least of all, for the title of guardian he invokes, his absence has made him lose it: neither my son nor I recognize his authority, and we have nothing to do with him. “You can, in fact, contest my rights,” said the old man calmly, “annul them perhaps; I have no illusions in this regard; but, before the judges have decided between us, any plan of marriage must remain suspended, and that is, for the moment, my only claim. ” “And if we go ahead, Monsieur?” asked Madame de Luxeuil with heated irony. “Then,” repeated the Duke in a firm tone, “I will follow you before the registrar , and there, publicly, with all doors open and the Baroness’s will in hand, I will declare that I oppose the celebration of the marriage; I will question Mademoiselle Honorine Louis aloud , I will tell her the true motives for searching for her cousin; I will warn her of the fate that awaits her, and if she doubts, I will offer her proof. “Proof! ” “Here they are! Letters written by your son to the mistress whose marriage is to enrich her! You see that I lack nothing, and that I am strong enough not to need to surprise you.” The old man spoke with a clear and self-assured firmness that terrified the Countess. Nothing could prevent him from doing what he had just announced, and if he did it, all was evidently lost. So Madame de Luxeuil remained stunned for a moment; then, passing, like all women, from shock to vexation, she tried to mask her fears with threatening words. But Vorel interrupted her. Until then, he had confined himself to the role of silent listener, looking alternately between the two speakers; when he finally understood, from the irritated confusion of Arthur’s mother, that the danger was becoming serious, he spoke in his turn. “Pardon,” he said quickly, “but as uncle of Mademoiselle Honorine Louis, I believe I have the right to take part in this debate. The resolution just announced by the Duke could not be carried out without a scandal equally unpleasant for everyone, and we must avoid it at all costs. ” M. de Saint-Alofe nodded his assent. “I will add,” the doctor continued, “that the request he addressed to the Countess seems to me too just to be rejected.” Madame de Luxeuil looked at him in surprise. “What!” she cried, “you want me to consent to an interrogation…” “That you cannot fear, Madame la Comtesse,” Vorel interrupted quickly. “The Duke’s anxieties, although ill-founded, I am certain, are excusable; I approve of them, and if necessary, I will support his request. ” Madame de Luxeuil wanted to protest. “Oh! Please, do not persist in your refusal,” the doctor continued with a marked accent that made the Countess attentive; “a longer resistance would justify suspicions that must be dispelled. I will only ask the Duke, as a physician, to delay this interview for a few moments. The emotion of this day has already tried Mademoiselle Honorine; she has just fainted and is still in a nervous state that would make any further agitation dangerous.” The Duke replied that he had learned, upon arriving at the hotel, of the young girl’s fainting, and that he would wait as long as necessary. “In that case,” continued Vorel, taking out a wallet and writing a few words in pencil, “may the Countess be good enough to carry out this simple prescription; the interview can then take place without any danger.” He tore up the sheet on which he had written and presented it to Madame de Luxeuil; she seemed at first disposed to resist, but scarcely had she glanced at the words written by the doctor when her expression changed. “Very well,” she said, with a remnant of ill-controlled irritation; “since it is the only way to avoid a ridiculous debate, I accept it. Monsieur le Duc can wait here. ” She bowed slightly and left. The doctor then approached the old man and looked at him fixedly. “Forgive me for interrupting for a moment the preoccupations that bring you here, Monsieur le Duc,” he said gravely; “but you will excuse me when you know that for twenty years I have been hoping for this meeting. ” “You!” said the astonished Duke. “Since the day your Address to French Landlords fell by chance before my eyes,” continued Vorel; “like you, Monsieur le Duc, I had been struck by the vices of our society; I awaited its reform with painful impatience; I hoped that your research would finally lead to the discovery of the laws of the future… ” “And this hope has not been disappointed,” interrupted the Duke, whose eye lit up with a sudden enthusiasm; “the reform you were waiting for is now easy; I have found the plan, the means, the details; the banquet hall is built, the banquet laid, the white robe prepared; man has only to strip himself, on the threshold, of the rags of the past.” “Who stops him then? ” “Alas! ignorance and fear. The unfortunate man mistrusts his own strength and doubts the goodness of God. When the goal is shown to him, he remains motionless, crying out like that madman who thought he was made of glass: “If I walk, I am broken!” and yet, happiness is there, before him. To create the new world, he need only say like the God of Genesis: “Let there be,” and the world will emerge from nothingness! Vorel shook his head. “Is Monsieur le Duc sure he has foreseen all the obstacles?” he said thoughtfully. “It is no easy thing to move humanity in this way, and if I were permitted to venture a few objections…” “Speak, Monsieur,” said M. de Saint-Alofe briskly, “I have never avoided discussion or refused clarifications; whatever your doubts, express them without fear, I am listening.” A strange smile crossed the doctor’s features; he cast a sideways glance at the clock, then, showing his interlocutor an armchair, he began a series of slow and embarrassed objections. At every moment, expression seemed to fail him; but the duke came to the aid of his impotence: guessing what he had meant, adding what he had omitted, he seemed to recruit himself this army of enemy arguments to combat and defeat them. By bringing him back to the thoughts which had been the interest of his whole life, M. Vorel was sure to make him forget all the rest. Brought back to the middle of his sublime dream, as if to the middle of an ocean on which he could no longer see anything of the earth, the old man began to describe with bold eloquence the new world which he had divined; he celebrated in advance this social America, still invisible, but perceived by his genius, and, intoxicated by his own words, faith was exalted in him, reality was erased from his eyes, he felt his hopes detach themselves from his mind and take on a form. What he had thought, he saw it, he heard it! He was in the middle of this celestial Jerusalem, emerged fully completed from his brain: he was no longer conscious of time, matter, space! Marvelous madness, known to Socrates, when he heard, outside himself, his inspiration speaking to him like a familiar demon, to Moses who listened to his genius on the mountain and believed he heard the voice of God, to Swedenborg whose ideas became sensations . As this hallucination grew, the old man’s speech became more broken, more ardent. Taken up into the high regions, he saw only the summits of his dream: he no longer recounted the new creation, he no longer explained it, he sang of it. Man has seen God’s promise fulfilled; he has conquered the kingship of the world. From now on, tamed matter has become his slave, the plagues have become his submissive agents. He asks the volcano for its fires, the storm for its wings, the lightning for its light: the lightning, the storm, the volcano obey; and he, crowned king of his intelligence, he passes, a gentle thinker, among these slaves who have freed him from coarse labor. And what he did outside, he did within himself. In his bosom flowed fertile springs which, always compressed, had become torrents; he gave them a bed: the passions that rumbled, chained tigers, have become docile steeds harnessed to the chariot of humanity. Humanity! it now forms a great family where the strong is the confidence of the weak, the weak the joy of the strong. The saints are no longer martyrs; the crown of thorns that rent their brows has been succeeded by the crown of forget-me-nots and mint surmounted by a star! Sweet symbol of divinization, of intelligence, of purity and of love. The mist is torn, the sun gilds the mountain, the joyful man rises and sings his hymn of triumph. –To work! to work! not for a master who will drink in gold my sweat and my tears, but for my brothers, for my sisters, for myself! To work! to work! not to wear out my body and stupefy my soul in monotonous fatigue, but to enliven them by movement and variety. And the woman who passes, rolling the rings of her hair, answers: –To work! to work! not to wither the beauty with which God has crowned me, but to mingle it with all human work, like the stars with the clouds, like flowers with ripe wheat; to work! to work! not to languish in solitude and poverty or to sell my love to the richest, but to freely choose my fiancé from among the sweetest and most loving. And the child who follows her, leaping, cries in her turn: –To work! to work! not in the stifling air of the classroom or the workshop, not under the threat of the master, not for the black bread of the present or for the doubtful bread of the future; but in the pure air, under the eye of the friend, for the honor of the future, and for the happiness of the present! To work! to work! not for the work that repels us, and according to the family that chance has given us, but there where the inner voices call us! And in the midst of this chorus of laughing activities, the voice of the fathers repeats, more serious and slower: –To work! to work! not to dispute with hunger the days that remain to us, for our sons have done the part of the fathers and we can rest in the sun of their prosperity; but our advice enlightens, Our voices encourage! To work! To work! And may we fade away, without noticing it, amidst the movements and murmurs of life. Here the old man stopped; his voice was trembling, tears were running down his cheeks, animated by a slight blush. Moved with joy at his vision, he folded his hands and closed his eyes as if he wanted to hold it back. There was a long pause. During this exalted improvisation, Vorel’s eyes had turned several times towards the clock; he seemed to be anxiously measuring the progress of the hand on the enameled dial. Suddenly the hour struck! Its shrill and measured ringing tore the Duke from his ecstasy. He started, passed his hand over his forehead, looked around him and seemed to recognize himself. “Two o’clock!” he cried, rising abruptly… Ah! I forgot myself… Your niece must have been ready to receive me for a long time, Monsieur… The doctor interrupted with a gesture that demanded silence, and listened: the rumble of several carriages had just shaken the pavement. An expression of triumph lit up Vorel’s face: the Duke seemed seized. “Would they want to take Mademoiselle Honorine Louis away without my knowledge and while I am waiting for her here,” he cried. “Remember, Monsieur, that I trusted your word, that of the Countess, and that it would be an odious perfidy! Instead of replying, the doctor ran to the door, opened it, and Madame de Luxeuil appeared. Chapter 28. Explanations. Monsieur Vorel questioned the Countess with his eyes; she replied with a sign that seemed to reassure him; but the Duke advanced quickly to meet them. “Why doesn’t Mademoiselle Honorine Louis follow Madame la Comtesse?” he said anxiously; I want to see her at once!… The Countess looked at him from her full height. “Honorine Louis!” she repeated, “there is no longer anyone here by that name, Monsieur le Duc; the one to whom you give it is now called Madame Arthur de Luxeuil. ” “What are you saying?” cried the old man. “Your threats forced us to act quickly,” continued the Countess in a mocking tone, “and while you were waiting here for your ward, she was going elsewhere… ” “It’s impossible!” interrupted the Duke, struck with stupor; “you couldn’t… you wouldn’t have dared… it’s impossible… I want proof!” Madame de Luxeuil silently handed him the document certifying the marriage. The old man glanced at it, then turned pale and put his hands to his forehead. “It’s true,” he stammered, “very true; but then your niece’s illness was a lie, this supposed order from Monsieur a warning to hurry, the conversation that made me forget the hours here, a trap arranged in advance!… This man only affected to be interested in my beliefs in order to distract me, to hold me back! He had promised you to awaken my madness to make me forget my duty! Coward who took the door of trust to slip in as an enemy, who armed himself against an old man with what constitutes his courage and his consolation, who sought to make his religion less dear to him, by attaching remorse to it! Thus, it was not enough to have sacrificed my goods, my peace, my freedom to my faith, it was necessary to sacrifice also the happiness of this child… Ah! this trial is too much, my God! and you should have turned this chalice away from me. There was in the old man’s accent a sorrowful nobility which embarrassed Madame de Luxeuil, not moved by it. “If the Duke’s fears were not an insult,” she said, “one could take the trouble to dispel them by informing him that my niece’s choice was free. ” “And who will prove to me the truth of this statement?” replied Monsieur de Saint-Alofe bitterly. “Ah! now I no longer want to believe anything but Mademoiselle Louis herself. ” “Let Monsieur le Duc question her, then, for here she is,” interrupted Vorel, pointing, with a strange expression, to the second door which had just open, and through which Honorine entered, giving her hand to the Marquis de Chanteaux. At this unexpected appearance, Madame de Luxeuil drew back, turning pale, and the Duke was stunned. As for the doctor, he tightened his glasses to see better. Now assured of the regularity of the sale made for his benefit, he had returned to his old hatred against the Countess, and contemplated her embarrassment with joyful malevolence. Neither the Marquis nor Honorine noticed at first the impression produced by their entrance: the latter, pale and distracted, seemed to be barely able to support herself, while M. de Chanteaux, leaning towards her, was finishing a compliment he had begun in the other room. But when they both finally stopped, the Marquis’s eyes fell on the old man who had remained motionless in the same place. He started, took a step closer, as if to make sure he was not mistaken, then moved backward, exclaiming: “The Duke!” The latter appeared neither to see nor to hear him. Standing before Honorine, his gaze fixed, his nostrils flaring, his lips trembling, he was in the grip of one of those silent tendernesses which leave no room for any sensation. However, he made an effort, advanced slowly towards the young girl with outstretched arms, seized one of her hands, and drawing her to him, looked at her more closely. “Yes…” he stammered at last; “those are her features… her hair… her movements!… Yes,… she is indeed Nancy’s daughter. ” “Nancy’s!” repeated Honorine, raising her head… “You knew my mother, sir?” “Her voice too… it’s her voice,” said the old man, continuing to talk to himself. The young girl felt a flash of lightning cross her mind. This confusion, the memory of the Baroness, the title of Duke given by M. de Chanteaux, this kind of intoxication with which the old man contemplated her… everything seized her! She clasped her hands, looked at the Marquis, Madame de Luxeuil, then, summoning all the strength she had left, she stammered: “You are the Duke of Saint-Alofe? ” “Who told you my name?” asked the astonished old man. Honorine did not answer. The cry she tried to utter stopped itself, stifled by emotion; she could only stretch out her arms and let herself slide to the Duke’s knees. Madame de Luxeuil, until then chained by surprise, rushed towards her and tried to intervene, but the young girl, sobbing, distraught, could not hear her. Still at the old man’s feet, she continued to stammer out incoherent sentences, in the middle of which her mother’s name kept coming up. The Duke, broken by so much agitation, had fallen into an armchair and kissed the young girl’s hands, trying to calm her. “In the name of God! Dry your tears, dear child,” he repeated, moved. “Why does the sight of me trouble you so much? Don’t you know that I want to be your protector, your friend? ” “Oh! yes,” Honorine stammered. “You will never leave me again… You will advise me!… Ah! why… didn’t you come… sooner? ” “Did you need support?” asked the Duke. “This marriage…” Honorine groaned and hid her head on the old man’s chest. “It was forced upon you,” he cried; “you gave in to violence?” “No,” replied the young girl, still pressed to her heart, “no; it was necessary… I consented… for my mother. ” “What are you saying? ” “They knew everything,” she murmured; “they wanted to use the letter!… ” “A letter, and what could it contain that would force you?” The young girl took from her bosom the note given to her by her aunt and handed it, without raising her eyes, to M. de Saint-Alofe. Seeing his name on the address, he opened it hastily and looked through it, but when he came to the signature, he gave a cry. “Nancy,” he repeated, “and this note is addressed to me! Unhappy girl! But it wasn’t your mother who wrote it, it’s a forgery! ” Honorine sat up, bewildered, and Madame de Luxeuil threw a look of terror. He hesitated for a moment, then, reassuring her with a gesture, he slipped towards the door, which had remained open, and disappeared… As for the duke, after having once again read the note, he had risen and taken a step towards the countess. The wrinkles of his bald forehead quivered with indignation, and his eyes flashed. His head thrown back, crumpling the note in one of his clenched hands, and the other extended with a gesture of command and threat, he was at once so majestic and so terrible that Madame de Luxeuil remained before him as if fascinated. “It is you who wrote this infamous letter,” he said in a low , broken tone; “it is you, or rather this man who has just fled and who has long practiced this forgery’s skill.” So, it cost you nothing to overcome this child’s resistance… to enrich yourself with her spoils!… O my God, and you allowed this woman’s plot to succeed! And the world counts her among its chosen ones! And she will have been able to destroy with impunity the happiness of the daughter and the honor of the mother?… No, let her at least retract her lies! He had advanced towards Madame de Luxeuil and seized her hand. The frightened countess wanted to free herself; but the old man, standing to his full height, his white hair disheveled and his implacable eye, held her motionless. “Ask for mercy, Madame,” he said in a thunderous voice, “ask for mercy from the one you slandered after having put her to death!” And forcing the countess to bend to her knees, he made her fall at his feet. There, suffocated with shame, rage, and terror, she could only utter a cry. M. Vorel, until then an impassive witness, thought he should finally intervene. At the first word he uttered, M. de Saint-Alofe, brought to his senses, let go of the hand he was holding. “Monsieur le duc forgets that violence towards a woman has always been regarded as unworthy of a gentleman,” said the doctor in his sweetly ironic accent, helping Madame de Luxeuil to her feet; “reproaches and outbursts are now useless, and can change nothing in what has been accomplished. ” “You are mistaken,” continued M. de Saint-Alofe, having become calmer again; “a marriage surprised by fraud can be broken, and I swear to use all my efforts to do so. ” Honorine, who had remained in the same place, terrified and unaware of everything that had just happened, raised her head at these last words. “Break my marriage!” she cried, running to the duke, is it really possible? Ah! If it is true, do not abandon me! My mother has entrusted me to you, Monsieur le Duc: it is up to you to save me; take me away! “What is she saying?” interrupted the countess. “Yes,” resumed Honorine impetuously, “he is my legitimate protector, it is him I must follow; I do not want to remain any longer near those who have cowardly deceived me!…” “She is right,” said M. de Saint-Alofe, “until the judges have pronounced, she cannot remain here. ” “Take me away,” cried the young girl; “my cousin will come; he will want to oppose!… For pity’s sake, take me away! ” “Stay!” said a voice which suddenly sounded behind her. Honorine turned away and saw M. de Chanteaux who had just entered with a stranger in a scarf. She stepped back in fear. “Let mademoiselle be reassured,” said the stranger politely. “We are looking for the Duke of Saint-Alofe. ” “It was I,” said the old man, “who had shuddered at the sight of the scarf.” The one wearing it bowed slightly. “Did not the Duke live in Doctor Monard’s house at Vanvres?” he asked. “Indeed,” replied the Duke of Saint-Alofe. “And he escaped from there five years ago? ” “It is true.” The stranger took a step forward. “Then,” he continued, “in the name of the king, sir, I arrest you! ” The Duke bowed his head with a groan; Honorine looked at the commissioner. “Arrest him!” she cried, “and by what order?” He presented her with a paper. “By virtue of a judgment of the court of the Seine,” he said coldly, ” which judgment places the Duke under the guardianship of the Marquis de Chanteaux. ” “What do you say? ” “Giving, moreover, the said Marquis authorization to have his ward locked up.
” “Can it be!… and the cause of such a judgment, sir? ” “The cause!” repeated the commissioner, with a little embarrassment, turning his eyes toward the old man. “Well?” “Well, Mademoiselle, the cause… is that the Duke of Saint-Alofe is mad!” The blow was so terrible, and it had been preceded by so many frightful emotions , that Honorine barely had the strength to utter a cry; she looked at the Duke, staggered, stretched out her hands to seek support, and fell into the arms of Vorel, who had come forward to support her. In conclusion, The Forsaken and the Chosen leaves us with a meditation on the choices that shape our lives and the consequences of our actions. The author shows us that, even in the face of adversity, hope and redemption can always emerge. Through the characters’ trials, we are led to reflect on our own values and the way we choose to live. The moral journey of this first volume continues to resonate powerfully.